He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses snap.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, Harry got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop -- but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a blood-stained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass -- and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.

Harry ducked into a large black cabinet standing against the far wall just as Draco entered. The man beside him could be none other than his father -- he had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold grey eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at items on display, until he reached the counter, where a greasy-haired man had appeared.

"Ah, Mr. Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy in a drawling voice.

"Mr. Malfoy, Draco," Borgin said in a voice as oily as his hair. "So nice to see you again. Let me show you, just in today, very reasonably priced --"

"I’m not buying today, but selling," said Malfoy smoothly. He pulled a long roll of parchment from the inside pocket of his cloak.

"Selling?" The smile faded slowly from Borgin’s face.

"Yes, the Ministry is becoming ever more bold. It’s that flea-bitten Arthur Weasely, no doubt."

Harry felt a surge of hot anger.

"I see," said Borgin greasily. He studied Mr. Malfoy’s list, and then said, "I think that we can arrange something here."

The two of them began to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale.

Then he turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward -- he stretched out his hand for the handle --

"Come, Draco," said Mr. Malfoy. The two of them left the shop together, Draco sulking slightly.

"Good day to you too, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor...."

After a moment Borgin turned back into the back of the store, and Harry slipped out of the cabinet and through the glass doors.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasley’s fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do.

"Not lost, are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump.

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked suspiciously like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry backed away.

"I’m fine, thanks," he said. "I’m just --"

"No, you’re not," the witch said, leering even more. "You’re lost, precious, aren’t you?"

Harry shuddered slightly, and continued to back away until he was standing with his back against a shop front. "No, really," he stuttered, "I’m fine, thanks...."

The old witch leaned forward until her face almost touched his. "Scared, are you?" she asked in a delighted whisper. "Yes, I think so, precious."

Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps and he drew as flat against the shop front as he could, which wasn’t far. Her tray she had set carefully on the ground, and now she kicked it, sending fingernails showering all over Harry’s feet. He recoiled, his eyes wide with obvious fear.

The witch cackled hoarsely. "Here’s another one for Him," she said softly, then laughed again. Suddenly she shrieked delightedly, and several heads turned. People, human and non, drifted towards the shop against which Harry was pinned, cruel and curious.

"I’ve got one," the witch shrieked. "One for Him!"

Harry had the vague thought that perhaps she had gone quite mad, but this was soon vanquished with the next turn of events.

Two masked wizards ran up behind the witch, who moved aside. Both pulled out their wands and cried, "STUPEFY!"

Arthur Weasley, together with four of his red-haired sons, sprinted up the street towards Gringotts. A lone brunette figure stood on the steps, waiting - yes, it was Hermione Granger. Good, she might know where Harry had got to.

"Hermione!" Ron ran up the steps, panting hard. "Have you seen Harry yet?"

Hermione gave Ron a quizzical look. "I thought he was with you," she said slowly.

"No," said Arthur, coming up behind the pair. "He has been staying with us, but we haven’t found him since we came here -- Molly’s frantic."

"How could he have gotten lost?" Hermione asked with raised eyebrows.

"We traveled by Floo powder," Fred supplied. "He’d never done it before -- we think he might’ve come out at the wrong grate."

"Oh, Floo powder," said Hermione. "I’ve read about that stuff. I’ve heard it’s a very unreliable way to travel," she added a bit severely.

"Well anyway, Harry’s not here," said George. We’ve searched up and down the Alley, and so has Mum, and none of us has found anything."

Molly Weasley ran up, Ginny in tow. "Did -- you -- find -- him?" she asked, panting heavily.

Arthur shook his head. "No, and we’ve looked everywhere," he said exhaustedly. "I think we should tell someone."

"Could he have...started shopping without us?" Molly said doubtfully.

"Probably," Arthur replied, relief evident in his tone. "We can see."

When Harry came to his senses he was in a large room with no furniture except the canopied bed on which he lay. The only window shimmered with spells -- he was obviously being kept in, whether he liked it or not.

The door to the room opened slowly, and Lucius Malfoy entered, cloak swirling around him and a mask dangling from his fingertips. "I see you’ve woken, then," he drawled.

Harry did not reply, but he shook with silent fury.

"You like your...room, I hope?" Lucius continued with a sneer. "Prepared especially for yourself."

"You --" Harry spat, his voice trembling. "You idiot, you --"

"Now, now, Mr. Potter," said Lucius in mock dismay, "Control yourself. There’s someone who very much would like to see you. Should I admit him?"

Harry clenched his fists, but said nothing.

"Very well," Lucius replied, "Then I shall."

He left the room, and the door swung closed behind him -- but only for a moment. Another man entered, masked, and placed a chair in front of the door. He then left, and for a moment the room was empty of any visitors, until…

"Voldemort?!"

"Arthur, I can’t find him anywhere --"

"Neither can we, Dad --"

"Where do you think he is, Mr. Weasley?"

"Dad, Dad, where’s Harry? Where’d he go?"

Arthur ran his fingers through what little hair he had. "I don’t know, Gin, Hermione," he said wearily. "All I know is he isn’t in Diagon."

"Knockturn?" George suggested timidly.

Molly turned on him ferociously. "Don’t even suggest that. You just want to go down there yourself. But -- Arthur, you don’t think he’s there, do you?"

"No, Molly," he assured her, "It’s not possible. I believe Hagrid was down there about the time Harry would’ve come out of the grate-- no, it’s just not possible, thank goodness."

"Hagrid was down Knockturn?" Fred said suspiciously.

"Slug repellent," Arthur added hastily. "For the school gardens."

"Oh."

"Er, Mr. Weasely?"

Arthur turned in surprise to see Hermione. "Yes?"

"What if someone else...found Harry before Hagrid did?" she said in a rush.

Molly paled. "What do you mean, Hermione?" she said shakily.

Hermione turned white also. "What if...someone on Knockturn found Harry before Hagrid could get to him?"

"I see you remember me, then," the tall man said softly. "I remember you, Harry Potter."

Harry whitened, blind terror now added to his boiling anger. "What’re you doing here?" he asked furiously. "And how did you...were you..."

"Restored to a proper form?" Voldemort asked, arching an eyebrow.

Harry nodded angrily.

"With the help of my faithful servants, of course," he replied, sinking into the chair that the second man had placed in front of the door. "Now, Harry Potter, I have a few questions for you."

Harry felt a searing pain through his scar as Voldemort looked at him squarely, red eyes blazing.

"First of all, Harry Potter, and to the point, how did you defeat me -- the greatest wizard since Grindewald -- when you were but a baby?" he spat the last word as if it were poison.

Harry winced as another lance of pain shot through his scar. "I don’t know," he said through gritted teeth.

"You don’t know?" Voldemort’s lip curled. "How can you not know?"

Harry shut his eyes, hoping to ease the pain somewhat. Surely his head would split in two from the pain. "I -- don’t -- know" he managed to repeat.

Voldemort laughed. "You don’t know," he taunted. "You don’t know! Of course. It must not have been by your own doing. You don’t know!"

Voldemort’s taunts rang in his ears, and for no reason at all Harry covered them with his hands. "Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop it!"

The world began to swirl around him -- he heard Voldemort laughing and jeering -- and then all was black.

"Hermione?"

Arthur stopped concernedly in the open doorway, watching Hermione’s shuddering shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Hermione turned around slightly, and Arthur could see that her face was streaked with tears. "Yes?" she asked.

"What’s the matter, Hermione?"

He needn’t have asked, he knew -- they were all mourning -- but he felt that she needed it, as her parents were not there -- Hermione had elected to stay with the Weasleys in the Leaky Cauldron, in case Harry was found. All in the Cauldron were subdued at the news that Harry Potter, the famous boy who had defeated the Dark Lord twice, was missing.

"It’s just that -- I’m afraid," Hermione said, embarrassment in her tone. "For Harry," she added.

Arthur entered awkwardly and sat down at the opposite end of the bed. "I know," he said softly. "We all are. But...." he couldn’t go on, he knew. He hadn’t told any of the children yet...he was afraid that it would hurt them too much. Which it would.

"Yes?" Hermione looked up expectantly.

Arthur sighed heavily. "Hermione...." he began again. "I -- well, I haven’t told any of the others -- Ron, Gin, Percy, Fred, George...even Molly -- but I think you should know. And they should, too."

He stopped, and Hermione raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"I think we will have to leave soon."

Hermione’s face lit up excitedly. "Harry’s been found?" she cried, preparing to bound off of the bed. "May I tell the others?"

Arthur put out a restraining hand, his face grave. "Hermione, sit back down," he said tiredly. "Harry...has not been found."

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. "Then you mean..." she breathed.

Arthur nodded unhappily. "Yes, Hermione," he said heavily, "I’m afraid we must leave without him. Remember, school starts in two weeks."

Hermione nodded mutely, and Arthur left the room.

It was a much subdued party that, one-by-one, entered the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron and traveled by means of Floo powder back to the Burrow. Each recipient of the sparkling powder was careful to speak the name of their destination clearly; the recent tragedy was still far too fresh in their minds.

Hermione departed immediately for the small blue house just outside of Lancaster to be with her parents – who were quite relieved to have her back in one piece – and so the only residents of the Burrow now were the Weasleys.

The ramshackle country house was quieter than ever before. Arthur worked late often at the Ministry, coming home past ten when most of the children were in bed. Molly scolded her children far less, and kept a box of tissues nearby – one never knew when one might begin to sob at old memories. The frequent explosions from Fred and George’s room were strangely absent; even Percy was subdued and sent Hermes out increasingly less often, until he had almost lost touch with all of his schoolfriends. Ginny, like her mother, burst into tears at odd times, and was often excused from the dinner table in these periods.

Ron, however, was the most affected. He almost never came out from his room, except at mealtimes. Errol was often seen flying to and fro from his bedroom window, as were various post owls – from Hermione, everyone supposed.

When the time came to board the Hogwarts Express, Arthur was shocked at the silence that reigned over the nearly-always-chaotic Platform Nine and Three-quarters. Many Gryffindor students, whether or not they knew or associated directly with Harry, were red-eyed and gloomy, as were Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Even a few Slytherin House students were quiet and looked suspiciously as if they’d been crying.

Draco Malfoy and his friends seemed to be the only children laughing or even talking that day. As Ron and the others climbed aboard the scarlet steam engine and met up with Hermione Arthur again noticed the complete silence, broken only by loud laughs from Malfoy’s compartment. Silently Arthur turned and followed Molly back through the barrier and into the Muggle world, without another glance or wave back to his children. He didn’t think he could stand one more sight of the cheery train with it’s red coat of paint and pleasant spiral of smoke.

Harry had been left quite alone since Voldemort had come to see him. The only visitor to his cell-like bedroom was a quiet, disdainful woman who could only be Narcissa Malfoy, at mealtimes when she brought up a tray of unappetizing food.

He spent his time listlessly walking around the room, thinking dark thoughts about his captors, and wising that he were back in the Burrow with the Weasleys. Sometimes, out of sheer boredom, he made the bed -- and then promptly unmade it, and made it again. Once, Narcissa Malfoy had stumbled upon him while he was making it (for the third time in a row, although of course she couldn’t have known that) and sneered slightly as he flushed a bright shade of scarlet. After that, he’d been careful to keep this pastime to the morning (after breakfast) and the late evening (after dinner).

He’d lost track of the days, but was sure that it was past September the 1^st, the day they were told to board the Hogwarts Express -- which would have made it about two weeks since his capture. He felt very much like a prisoner of war, although he was never questioned -- no, not even visited by someone other than Mrs. Malfoy.

About seventeen days after his capture (if he had figured right, and it was September 4^th) he heard a new sound -- it was the sound of what seemed to be three people arguing heatedly. Feeling rather foolish, he pressed his ear to the floor, where he was able to hear more clearly.

"Really, it’s completely impractical to do that. Who would it benefit? The boy’s not there. Doesn’t that erase the point?"

There was a loud, emphatic thump from the lower floor.

"It most certainly does not erase the point, Mister Nott --"

"But sir, if the boy’s gone, what’s the use of the whole plan?"

Harry took off his glasses and placed them on the floor beside him -- now he could hear even better, as his entire head was smashed against the dingy prune-colored carpet.

"I most certainly agree, Danady," Nott, the first speaker, broke in.

An icy silence hung over the room and Harry strained to hear any voices. Finally the second man spoke coldly to Nott and Danady.

"Gentlemen, I see you have missed the point. The boy is not at the school, but our exalted Master can still use his plot to rid the place of Mudbloods. Now do you see the point?"

One of the others muttered something, something Harry did not catch but one word of -- monster.

The feast at Hogwarts was much subdued the night of September 1^st. Only those at the Slytherin table still laughed loudly. Even those who had little or no idea of what had happened were silent, concluding that it must have been something terrible to cast such a pall over the assembly. After all of the newest first years had been sorted, Headmaster Dumbledore stood and cleared his throat. All in the hall -- even those at the Slytherin table -- waited expectantly for his message.

"Welcome, to another year at Hogwarts," he said, rather dully. "I am afraid that at the opening of this year we must begin with some … truly terrible news."

He waited a moment, and the hall became deathly silent.

"One student, that many of you know personally and many others by sight, has been taken from our midst in a terrible accident that is believed to be connected to You-Know-Who -- Lord Voldemort." A whisper ran through the assembly as he spoke the name of the Dark Lord, but soon subsided as Dumbledore continued. "That student," he said quite heavily, "Is Harry Potter."

An uproar ensued. Questions were thrown at the Headmaster from the tables of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff; boos and jeers from Slytherin. "What happened?" was the popular query of students to their schoolmates. "I don’t know," was the most common answer.

Dumbledore raised his hands for silence; the chatter died away as quickly as it had come. "We are all deeply hurt by the disappearance of Mr. Potter, whether or not we knew him directly. But I believe that the most affected of all of us are Mr. Ronald Weasley and his family and Hermione Granger, along with the rest of the Gryffindors and others who knew Harry well. And now --" He sighed heavily and waved a hand, after which gesture the plates filled with all manner of food. "Let us eat."

One month and twenty days after term began, on October twentieth, preparations for the Halloween Feast were already underway. A flurry of activity existed perpetually in the teacher’s own living quarters, while the students all excitedly discussed the rumors flying around the school about what Professor Dumbledore had done to ensure the success of the evening. A popular rumor was that he had booked a trio of dancing skeletons; another was that he had invited five singers -- the Wily Witches -- from WRS, a popular wizarding radio station, and that the Witches had accepted the invitation and were scheduled to sing a large selection of their greatest hits (including "Poisonous Love" and "Under the Full Moon, You Transform for Me").

Even the Weasley children and Hermione began to creep out of their shells of misery to watch the festive preparations going on in the dormitories and the great hall. One afternoon Ron even commented on how much he hoped the Wily Witches rumor was true.

One Tuesday afternoon as Ron and Hermione walked together, separated from the other second years by a web of sorrow, Nearly Headless Nick glided through the walls nearby, muttering angrily and holding a transparent envelope in one hand and an equally ghostlike letter in the other.

"You look troubled, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," he said when he saw them, tucking the letter into the envelope and the envelope into his doublet.

"So do you," said Ron.

"A matter of no importance…it’s not as thought I really wanted to join…thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’--"

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

"But you would think, wouldn’t you," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

"Oh -- yes," said Hermione, obviously supposed to agree. Ron nodded.

"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However --"

Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

Fuming, Nick stuffed the letter away.

"I wish there was something we could do for you about the Headless Hunt," Hermione said suddenly.

"Yeah," Ron added. "Write them a letter or -- or something."

"But…." Nick hesitated, and then continued, his voice gaining enthusiasm. "There is something you could do! Would I be asking too much -- but no, you wouldn’t want --"

"What?" Ron asked.

"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," said Nick, looking dignified. "I would be honored if the two of you would attend the party I’m holding down in one of the roomier dungeons. But…I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?" he struggled to keep his face from falling and failed.

"No!" said Ron and Hermione together. "We’ll come," Hermione added. "But how would it help you….?"

"Do you -- do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"

"Of course," Ron said. "Sure," Hermione answered at the same time.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at them.

"You what?" Fred asked in amazement later that night in the Gryffindor Common Room, after Ron had explained about Nick’s five hundredth deathday party.

"We…said we’d go," said Ron, embarrassed now.

"To the deathday party," Hermione supplied. "Nearly Headless Nick’s…."

"I know that," Fred said irritably. "But why did you say you’d go?"

"Er…."

Fred threw up his hands in surrender. "Fine, whatever you want. But you’ll miss the school feast, and the Wily Witches or the skeletons -- whichever Dumbledore picks…."

Ron mumbled something unintelligible and fled to the boy’s dormitory. Hermione glared severely at Fred. "You shouldn’t have made him mad," she said angrily. "Have you ever thought of what he’s going through?" With this, she, too turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to her dormitory.

Harry paced back and forth, back and forth the length of his cell-like room, pondering the conversation he’d heard over a month ago. Since then there had been not a word, not even a whisper, from the downstairs room in which he had heard the three men -- Nott, Danady, and the unnamed commander -- heatedly arguing. What had it all meant?

There had been much speculation about a "boy". Harry wasn’t stupid; he knew they must mean him. And there had been a school -- it must have been Hogwarts, since Harry wasn’t there. The ‘exalted Master’ might have been Voldemort, but he wasn’t sure….

Oh, stop it, he told himself irritably. You can’t help, even if you knew what it all meant.

But…was something going to happen at Hogwarts while he was gone? He was sure that something was, and that it wouldn’t be a nice "something". The last word of the conversation, the one he had barely caught, lurked in the back of his mind -- monster.

His thoughts were interrupted as the disdainful Narcissa Malfoy came to deliver a tray of food. As always, she was silent -- until she reached the door. In the doorframe, she turned around and exploded "Eat the food, boy!" and then left the room once more.

Harry stood, holding the tray, in shock. What had that meant? Obviously something was troubling her … and the outburst must have meant something different than just "Eat the food, boy!".

He shook his head slightly, as if he were trying to shake the thought from his mind. Ravenously he turned on the contents of the tray -- only a cup of cold soup and a crust of questionable bread. "Eat the food, boy!"? What on earth could it mean, anyway?

Voices drifted up to him from the floor below. He noted it absently, and then did a double take: the floor below? That was the room in which the three men had argued! That was the room in which nothing had been heard since that argument! Dropping his tray, heedless of the contents, he threw his glasses onto the floor and pressed his face firmly against the carpet.

It seemed as if there was another heated conversation going on in the room. This time he thought he heard a woman and a man, both talking angrily in raised voices.

"It’s a daft idea," the woman screamed. Harry started as he recognized Narcissa Malfoy’s tone, the same that had shouted at him to eat his food.

"Narcissa --" yes, it was her, Harry thought -- "You don’t understand. He’ll come to no harm --"

"What if this thing were to run mad and attack them all?!" the woman screeched again. "It’s a mad idea, I tell you!"

"Narcissa…."

"Stop it! Stop it, will you! You and your patronizing ways! Just stop it." Narcissa had screamed this last louder than the rest, and a door slammed below Harry’s room. He heard the man mutter unintelligibly, and then the door opened again and, Harry thought, another person entered the room and addressed the second in a loud, pompous tone. Was it Nott, the man in the previous argument? It sounded like him, but he could not have been sure.

"Good evening, sir. I trust I find you well?"

The second man mumbled something, making both of them laugh.

"How is she taking it now?" the visitor asked suddenly.

"Terribly. She’s got those silly fears in her head --" the first man swore loudly.

"Yes, I do understand," the visitor mused. "Anything I could do to help?"

"Just go find something to do. The exalted Master relies on me to keep things in order…"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy." The downstairs door opened and closed gently, and Harry stood. Slipping his glasses back onto his face, he walked to the small, heavily guarded window he had noticed upon arrival and peered through the thick panes of glass to the forest below.

He seemed to be in a large house, judging from the wing extending in the background to his left. It was backed by a forest -- he craned his neck around to try and see what the front was like, but couldn’t. He looked down -- it didn’t seem to be so long of a way. Maybe if he could open the window … ?

He tried to pry open the shimmering lock, but it wouldn’t budge. Thinking a moment, he drew his wand from inside his robes -- why had they left him his wand, anyway? -- and, thinking again, pointed it squarely at the lock. "Alohomora!" he said, and waited.

He hadn’t expected much to happen, and it didn’t. Sighing, he began to pry at the lock again -- and it opened with surprising ease. Was the Alohomora charm the key?

Stealthily -- now that he had the window open, he was afraid to alert the household -- he let the window swing open, and then he climbed carefully onto the jutting ledge and swung his legs out of the window. It was only about ten feet down -- he was sure that he could make the distance more or less easily.

As quietly as he could, Harry scooted towards the outer edge of the ledge. When he reached it he turned around and let himself drop -- now he was hanging by his fingertips. He hung for a moment, breathing heavily and hoping that no one had heard him, and then dropped to the ground.

Harry landed on one foot, one knee. The rough gravel of the walkway cut through his robes and into the skin on his knee, making him wince in pain. He tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his cloak, wrapped it tightly around the scrape, and rose until he stood shakily on his feet. Suddenly the thought crossed his mind -- This is too easy. I climb out of a window, and escape Voldemort?

He shivered with that thought, a sudden chill coursing up his spine. Then he turned and limped quietly to the corner of the large manor, where he stood and caught his breath.

"…yes, I think that’s a splendid solution…"

His heart leaped into his throat as he heard the crunch of feet on gravel and the sound of two men talking. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he wished fervently for the Invisibility Cloak in his trunk back at the Burrow.

The two men -- both tall, black-robed and with masks dangling from their fingers -- had their backs to him as they walked and conferred in low voices, but Harry could hear quite clearly their conversation.

"…is going well."

"It is? How many?"

"None, as of yet --"

"None?"

"None," the first speaker said frostily. "Yet."

"But, Mr. Malfoy --"

"The Master has his own reasons for doing things, Arrlimon Danady," Malfoy said coldly. "I trust you not to question them."

"But if the Master is to carry out his plan…"

The voices grew lower as Malfoy and Danady turned a corner. Harry, intrigued by the day’s second mysterious conversation, followed on tiptoe. As he peeked carefully around the side of the manor he saw Malfoy and Danady sitting at a small garden tea table. Malfoy’s back was to Harry, but Arrlimon Danady stared straight at him.

Harry drew back quickly, but it was too late. He had seen the recognition in Danady’s eyes, and he was not too surprised when a moment later Danady cut Malfoy off with a terse "Sir, I saw someone over there."

Malfoy, who had been talking quite cryptically about the ‘Heir’, the ‘Master’, the ‘Beast’ or the ‘Monster’, the ‘School’, and the ‘Boy’, looked up in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked frostily. "I do not wish to explain the process again."

"You don’t have to, sir, I caught it," Danady said. "But -- please -- look just around there."

The chair scraped against the garden patio as Malfoy stood. "Fine then, Danady," he said coldly. "I’ll look, but if you are lying to me … time is worth many thousands of Galleons, these days."

Harry stood, paralyzed with fear, as he heard footsteps come nearer to where he stood.

A few moments later, Lucius Malfoy, mask swinging nonchalantly from his fingers, saw the boy crouching in terror against the wall. Danady stood behind him, a triumphant gleam in his eye. He was a tall, dark-haired man with gleaming black eyes and a sneer affixed permanently on his face. "I told you, didn’t I," he muttered to Malfoy as they rounded the corner.

"Ah … Potter."

Malfoy spat the name like poison. Harry, petrified, did not move.

"So nice to see you again," Malfoy continued. "I trust you have been … ah … comfortable in your stay?"

Harry felt a rising tide of anger, but said nothing.

"No?" Malfoy obviously did not expect an answer. "So sad to hear it, Potter. However, I’m afraid you’ll have to go back…."

A glint in his pale eye, he raised his wand until it was level with Harry’s chest. "Crucio!" he cried suddenly, and smiled.

Harry was suddenly torn with searing pain, worse than any he had ever before experienced. He fell to the ground and tried to stop it, keep it from continuing, somehow … and failed. He screamed -- and it stopped.

Malfoy was laughing quietly. "You liked it, Potter?" he asked softly. "Would you like to do it again?"

Motionless, Harry waited for whatever came next. Suddenly, as Malfoy raised the wand to place the curse once more, Danady stepped forward swiftly and knocked the wand from his companion’s hand.

Tight-lipped, Malfoy turned on his companion and let out a string of loud, angry curses. "Why did you do that?" he roared angrily.

Danady stood his ground calmly, guarding Malfoy’s wand with his foot. "You’ll kill the boy, sir," he said in a tone that was anything but respectful, "And then, I think, there would be a problem with the Master."

Malfoy gritted his teeth angrily, and turned back to Harry. "Fine," he muttered. Then, before Danady could move, he bent over and snatched up the wand. Harry cowered inwardly -- not the curse again!

But Malfoy did not perform the curse on his victim. Instead, with a few angrily muttered words he conjured ropes on both Harry and Danady. Grabbing hold of Harry’s robe, he dragged him angrily along the wall until they reached a door. Shoving Harry inside, he proceeded to more-or-less kick him up a flight of stairs until they reached a shabby hallway carpeted with a dark purple -- the same carpet, Harry realized, as that of his "room".

Sure enough, a moment later Malfoy jerked open the door of the too-well-known cell-like room and shoved Harry inside, after which gesture the ropes binding his arms disappeared. With a muttered oath Malfoy slammed the door, locked it, and placed several protection spells on the lock, Harry could see. With a sinking heart, he noticed that the window, too, was shimmering even brighter with magic than before.

After a few moments he heard shouts from below, outside. Curiously he ran to the window, and saw Malfoy and Danady shouting at each other. Danady was still bound tightly with magical ropes, and his wand was in Malfoy’s long fingers. Harry could not tell what they were saying, but it seemed that Malfoy was angry with his companion for knocking his wand away just as he was about to perform the "Crucio" curse again.

Sighing, Harry sat down on the bed. Half-heartedly he took out his wand (why had Malfoy not taken it from him earlier, anyway?) and performed the Unlocking Charm once more on the shimmering window lock, but nothing happened. He hadn’t ever had a chance this afternoon, anyway.

A flash of purple light outside the window startled Harry, and he looked through the thick glass down on Malfoy and Danady. Arrlimon Danady was limp and pale -- but alive, still, he could tell.

As Malfoy, down below, raised his wand to strike a final blow to the black-haired man at his feet, Narcissa hurried to him and whispered urgently in his ear. Surprised, Malfoy turned away, and -- leaving Danady’s limp form behind -- turned into the same door through which he had taken Harry just a few moments previous.

Harry held his breath, waiting for footsteps to fall in the outside corridor, for the door to open and for Malfoy and Narcissa to confront him --

But it never happened. What footfalls there were receded to another corridor, and Harry let his breath out loudly. He didn’t feel like facing his captors right now.

Ron’s stomach growled loudly as he and Hermione exited the black streamer-hung doorway at the end of Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party. "Do you think there’ll be anything left at the feast?" he asked wearily.

"Probably," Hermione said. "Hey, what’s that?"

Ron paled as he followed her gaze. "A spider," he whispered.

Hermione gave a nervous laugh. "A big spider," she added.

It was true -- before them, hiding in the corner of the corridor, was a very large spider. It was at least as big as Hermione’s hand … she shivered. Ron shivered harder. "I hate spiders," he croaked. "Come on, let’s go."

"No, wait a minute," Hermione said suddenly. "It’s leaving. Let’s follow it. Besides, the feast isn’t over yet."

Ron said nothing, but lagged behind as Hermione followed the large arachnid up countless flights of stairs and through many, many corridors.

Finally they arrived at the start of a new corridor. On their left was a door proclaiming that this was a girl’s toilet in peeling painted letters. Ron scooted away as he noticed a large, glinting puddle of water running along the side of the wall.

"That’s Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom," Hermione explained darkly. They had lost sight of the spider a minute ago, and Ron was glad.

"The ghost at the party?" Ron asked. "The girl? That Peeves teased?"

"Yes," Hermione sighed. "Come on, we might as well see where the puddle goes."

They turned the corner to the corridor and found the rest of the puddle -- looking like a small lake in the narrow hallway -- in the middle, on the floor. Ron studied it for a moment, liking the way the moonlight glinted on the dark navy-colored water.

Hermione nudged him. "Ron, look," she said in a strained whisper. He followed her gaze.

"Oi," he whispered.

On the wall in front of them, ghostly writing had been painted. "The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened," it read. "Enemies of the Heir, Beware."

Below the writing, the statue of a cat hung. But it wasn’t a statue.

It was Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch’s cat, and she was stone.

"We shouldn’t try to help?" Hermione asked dubiously.

"Trust me," Ron replied emphatically. "We do not want to be found here."

But it was too late. A low rumble came from the ground below them; the feast had ended. From either side of the corridor they heard the sounds of feet pattering up the stairs, happy feasters chatting with one another, prefects shouting themselves hoarse trying to regain order.

It was like being caught in a tornado. Ron and Hermione edged away from the mass as it congregated in the corridor; all talking stopped, staring at the opposite wall. Ron and Hermione stood, guiltily, beside the stone figure of Mrs. Norris.

"Enemies of the Heir, Beware," Draco Malfoy read loudly through the silence. "You’ll be next, Mudbloods!"

The silence hung for a moment more, and then Filch came pushing through the crowd. "What’s going on here? What’s going on?" he barked.

He stopped as he saw Mrs. Norris and clutched his face in horror.

"My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?" he screeched.

His eyes fell on Ron and Hermione, white-faced under the shimmering silver writing.

"Murderers! You killed my cat!" Filch shrieked. "You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! My cat, my cat! You’ve killed my cat!"

"Argus!"

Dumbledore had arrived at the wall, followed by a number of teachers. In seconds he had swept passed Ron and Hermione and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket on which she hung. "Come with me, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," he said. "You too, Argus."

Professor Aracidia, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher with whom neither Ron nor Hermione were very well acquainted, stepped forward and inclined his head slightly. "Professor," he said formally, "If you would like the use of my office, it is just upstairs."

Dumbledore nodded and thanked him, and then led Hermione, Ron, and Filch -- followed by Aracidia, Snape, and McGonagall -- up a flight of stairs and into Aracidia’s darkened office.

Dumbledore looked closely at Mrs. Norris through his half-moon glasses, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: it was as if he was trying hard not to smile.

"It might have been a curse that killed her, Professor," Aracidia said sonorously. "Perhaps the Trasmogrifan Torture or the Partimelius Curse?"

Filch’s racking sobs from a corner of the room grew louder at the mention of the curses. He was slumped on a chair in the shadows behind Professor Snape, hands covering his eyes; he refused to look at the immobile Mrs. Norris.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange incantations and spells over the motionless cat. He tapped her a few times with the tip of his wand, but nothing happened: Mrs. Norris continued to look as if she had been stuffed.

"She’s not dead, Argus," Dumbledore said at last, straightening. Professor McGonagall’s face registered blank shock, but before she could question the headmaster further Filch uncovered his hands and turned his face to Dumbledore.

"Just a moment, Minerva," the headmaster said in an undertone.

"What do you mean she’s -- not -- dead?" Filch choked out. "Why’s she all still and -- and -- frozen then?"

"She’s been Petrified, Argus," said Dumbledore gently. "Though how, I cannot say…."

"Ask them!" Filch shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at Ron and Hermione.

"No second year could have done this, Argus. It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced kind --" Professor Dumbledore began, but Filch cut him off.

"You saw what they wrote on the wall!" Filch screeched. "They did it, I tell you!"

"If I might speak, Headmaster," came Snape’s voice from the shadows. "Weasley and Granger might have just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why didn’t he go to the Halloween feast?"

Ron and Hermione both launched into an explanation of where they had been. "…there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you where we’ve been -- "

"But why not go to the feast afterward?" said Snape silkily, his black eyes glinting maliciously. "Why go up to that corridor?"

"Because -- because --" Hermione began nervously, "because we were tired and wanted to go to bed."

"Without any supper?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren’t hungry," Ron said loudly just as his stomach emitted a huge rumble.

Snape’s smile widened. "I suggest, Headmaster, that these students are not being entirely truthful," he said. "It might be a good idea if they were deprived of certain privileges…or given detention, perhaps."

"Really, Severus," McGonagall began. "There is no evidence that Weasley and Granger have done anything wrong."

Dumbledore was giving Hermione and Ron a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made them feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

"My cat has been Petrified!" Filch screamed. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor Sprout has some Mandrakes now, I believe. As soon as they reach their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

"That’s right," Hermione said, and Ron nodded. They both remembered the fussy, earthy baby-like plants they had repotted just a few weeks previous.

"You may go now," Dumbledore said to Ron and Hermione kindly.

They went as quickly as the y could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Aracidia’s office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them.

"D’you think we should have told them about the spider?" Ron asked dubiously.

"No," said Hermione without hesitation. "It was so weird…."

"The whole thing is weird," Ron said. "The Chamber has been Opened…what’s that supposed to mean?"

"You know, it rings a bell," Hermione said slowly. "I think that I’ve read about it somewhere…."

A clock chimed somewhere. "Midnight," said Ron, sounding relieved. "We’d better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else."

Since his run for freedom, Harry had seen even less of anyone. Narcissa now rarely opened the door to pass him his food -- he always found a tray magicked into his room instead -- as if she was frightened that he would make another break for the outside world. Several times Harry had tried the Alohomora charm on the window-lock, and the door-lock, but both just shimmered brighter as their protective spells resisted the simple charm. Now he was back to making his bed and pacing the room fitfully, wishing that he had something else to do with his time.

No more conversation had been heard from the "Arguing Room", as Harry had dubbed it, downstairs. The household seemed to have settled into a quiet routine with little anger -- or at least, little visible anger -- or malice. Once Harry had seen Lucius Malfoy and his colleague, Nott, walking in the garden and conferring seriously, but he had not been able to catch what they were saying -- and they didn’t look very angry, either.

The most suspicious thing that had happened in the last week was the one time that his lunch tray had arrived sooner than usual -- at about eleven in the morning, if Harry’s wristwatch was still accurate. Though the rumblings of his stomach didn’t often subside, they hadn’t yet started again after breakfast when, suddenly, there was a tray with a slice of questionable-looking bread and a lump of gray pudding-like something sitting on the floor at the foot of the four-poster. Harry had saved it until his watch proclaimed the time to be twelve-thirty, the time the tray usually appeared, but it had put his desperate brain to work, thinking of the cause for earliness.

Finally he flopped onto the bed, bored, and closed his eyes. It was no use worrying about an early lunch, anyway -- it was probably just because the house-elves had a day off, or something.

With a sigh, he fell asleep.

The loud babble in the Great Hall silenced as Ron and Hermione entered together and helped themselves to several pieces of generously buttered toast. Balancing a tall cup of pumpkin juice in one hand and a plate piled high with toast in another, Hermione scouted out a place at the Gryffindor table. She and Ron sat down by two third years, who promptly scooted away until there was at least two feet between them and the two second years.

Uneasy glances were cast at Ron and Hermione, sitting uncomfortably and eating the toast as fast as possible. The babble did not start up again for several minutes -- instead, a rustling filled the hall, the rustling of many groups of excited whisperers. The two third years on either side of the duo were both included in these whispering-parties -- but Ron and Hermione were not.

A few words from the conversation nearest Hermione caught her attention. "…yes…" "Dark, I’m sure…" "Dark? The Heirs, if I’m not mistaken."

Without thinking Hermione leaned closer, at which point the talking stopped abruptly. "What d’you want?" the blonde third-year girl who was sitting next to her asked abruptly. "Can’t you tell when someone is having a private talk?"

Guiltily, Hermione pulled back and busily ate her breakfast, whispering to Ron as she did so.

"They think we’re the ones," she whispered helplessly. Ron nodded angrily, and kicked the foot of the third year boy next to him. She turned ferociously on him, baby-blue eyes glinting angrily. "You stupid little boy," she all but screeched, "Just go away!"

Ron turned back to Hermione without a word to the third-year. "Yeah, I see what you mean," he muttered. "C’mon, let’s go up to the Common Room until classes start."

In the Gryffindor Common Room things were not much better. As Ron and Hermione dropped, sighing, into two of the oversized armchairs, the few other students studying, talking, or reading all turned slightly away from them. Hermione and Ron didn’t know anyone there, but still the pain was evident as no one raised even a finger in acknowledgement of their presence.

"They really do," Ron said angrily, and swore. "Just because of that stupid spider …."

Hermione shook her head slightly and pulled a thick copy of Creatures of the Dark: Dangerous and often Deadly Nocturnal Species into her lap. Soon she was immersed in a chapter on vampire bats.

Ron stared at the ever-crackling fire, thinking of Harry for the first time in quite a few weeks. A hot burning behind his eyes caused him to shut them quickly, before the tears came fully. "Gottagogetready," he mumbled to Hermione, and then ran up to the boy’s dormitory. It was empty except for Trevor the Toad in a glass tank by Neville’s bed.

He climbed onto the four-poster and drew the curtains, staring through a slit at the empty bed next to his. Harry’s bed, he thought sadly, his sadness laced with a bitterness for whoever was responsible for everything that was happening now.

Pounding steps on the spiral stairs told him that someone was fast approaching the dormitory. Wishing to remain unnoticed, Ron lay still on the four-poster until the visitor -- Seamus Finnigan, probably -- had departed once more. With a sigh he sat up and, reaching his arm out of the hangings, pulled the photograph album that lay just under the bed into the dark rectangular space with him.

Listlessly he thumbed through the pages, his eyes burning once more as he saw the various snapshots of Harry -- Harry with Ron, Harry with Hermione, Harry with both. In one picture Harry had been startled when Scabbers, Ron’s ever-sleeping rat, had leaped onto his face and clawed at his glasses -- causing them to fall and the Spellotape holding them together to break.

In another picture, Harry and Ron stood with the rest of the Weasley family -- everyone in the picture was waving cheerily (except Percy, who was polishing his Prefect badge and looking dignified). In yet another, Hermione was beaming as Professor McGonagall presented her with the Valued Scholar Award for Gryffindor House. Harry and Ron were in the front of the picture, their backs towards the photographer -- both clapping heartily.

Sighing in frustration, Ron shut the book and snapped the lock -- for the first time ever -- for the pictures had suddenly become as precious as gold to him.

"Ron? Ron!"

A shout carried up the dormitory stairs -- it was Hermione. "Ron! Can you hear me? It’s time for Transfiguration…."

Slowly Ron parted the hangings and grabbed his schoolbag, and then descended the stairs to join Hermione. She stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase with a disapproving look on her face and her own bag clutched tightly in one hand. Scabbers was in the other, dangling by his tail in Hermione’s hand, and -- amazingly -- still sleeping.

"This was in my bag," Hermione said disgustedly. "Please, take him away."

Ron angrily tore Scabbers from Hermione’s hand and raced back up the stairs to the dormitory, where he deposited the hapless rat on his bed. "Stay there," he muttered to his pet through gritted teeth.

His humor was poor as he met Hermione once again at the foot of the spiral staircase. "Let’s go," he said shortly.

Hermione made several attempts to start a conversation -- each one failing miserably. "Just -- come on," Ron said angrily, striding ahead so she couldn’t see the tears if they fell.

"Rats. All the copies of Hogwarts, a History are taken out of the library."

Hermione thumped into an armchair beside Ron in the Common Room, several volumes of thick Hogwartian History in her lap.

"Why d’you want Hogwarts, a History anyway?" Ron asked, not looking up from the Defense Against the Dark Arts paper he was writing.

"I left mine at home," Hermione explained.

Ron set down his quill exasperatedly. "Hermione, I don’t mean that kind of why -- why do you want to read it again, anyway? You’ve read it millions of times already --"

"To read up on the Chamber of Secrets, of course," said Hermione stuffily. "Just like everyone else."

"Oh," Ron said, retrieving his quill and continuing to jot notes on the Transylvanian Vampire Bat. "Let’s see … lives only in dark places, such as caves, caverns, or deep gorges. Hmm. A nocturnal species, the Vampire Bat appears only on moonless nights, when it seeks the blood of other living creatures… not something I’d want to meet."

"Oh, whatever," Hermione said haughtily, and turned to a leather-bound copy of The Autobiography of Godric Gryffindor, co-founder of Hogwarts School.

Harry was woken, near midnight, by a soft -- almost intelligible -- rap on the door. Fear crept through his being as he tiptoed to the door and stood before it, expecting the worst..

The door rattled, and then opened slowly. Harry stifled a gasp.

Standing just outside his door was the person that he least expected to see in the middle of the night, standing outside the door of his prison: Arrlimon Danady.

Danady’s long black robe was torn to shreds around his thin frame, and his steely midnight-colored eyes were bloodshot and crazed.

"Need -- water," he croaked, and then collapsed in the doorway.

Harry suppressed the urge to scream at the limp form in his doorway -- and then suppressed the urge to break for freedom while the typically-locked door was open.

Suddenly footsteps pounded up the stairway. Harry quickly pulled the limp-but-breathing Danady under his bed and closed the door with a soft click. A light flared in the hallway outside -- the candlelight streamed under his door -- and loud voices called to each other as they searched for whatever the object of their curiosity was.

He heard the unmistakable voice of Lucius Malfoy cursing loudly in the other room. "The arrogance of the man -- search harder. We must find him!"

Doors slammed up and down the purple-carpeted hall outside his door, and Harry lay in his bed, feigning sleep.

Suddenly the door to his chamber flew open, and the small room flooded with the light of a brilliant white fire inside a glass orb held by Lucius Malfoy. Tearing furiously across the room he kicked the side of the bed -- and Harry sat up, reaching for his glasses.

Malfoy knocked them out of his reach, and held the glass orb towards Harry’s face until he was close to blinded by the radiance of the fire inside.

"Where is he?" Malfoy said in a cold, surprisingly calm voice. "Remember, Potter, your life depends on the quality of your answer."

Harry swallowed hard. "Who, sir?" he asked weakly.

Malfoy snarled angrily. "Come, boy, don’t play the fool with me! It is Arrlimon Danady I’ve come for --" he let out a string of loud, angry curses and then pulled the orb away from Harry’s face. With a grateful sigh, Harry opened his eyes and stared hard at the pale, glittering eyes of the terribly angry Lucius Malfoy.

"I don’t know who you’re talking about," Harry said, contempt rising in his voice. "Furlion Daddy? I’ve never heard of him."

Malfoy’s face contorted with fury. "You -- insolent -- boy! Nott, come here, this instant!"

Nott came up behind him, panting. He was cloaked and masked -- Harry could not identify any special features; he looked like any other servant of Voldemort -- and his hair was covered completely by a black hood. "Sir, you called?" he asked in a tired tone.

Malfoy swung around to face his colleague. "Yes, I called, Mister Nott," he snapped. "Search this room -- entirely -- and do not rest until you find the traitor Danady. Now!"

Nott bowed and proceeded to thoroughly search the closets, cabinets and even the window ledge for the missing "traitor".

Harry broke into a cold sweat, thinking of the limp and senseless man lying just under his bed. Praying that they would not search there, he waited, stony-faced, for the final outcome.

"He’s not here, sir," Nott said finally -- after looking everywhere except under the four-poster bed.

Malfoy, as if reading Harry’s thoughts, smiled cruelly. "Not here, you say? Then who is this?" As he spoke the last vindictive word, Malfoy jerked up the bed skirt. Harry paled, but Lucius Malfoy was not watching him. Instead he stood, gaping, at the empty space under the bed.

Harry suppressed a grin as he watched the smile on Malfoy’s pale face turn to a look of blank amazement. "Goyle!" he screamed finally, calling to a large man just outside the door. "Get in here, now!"

Goyle hurried inside.

"Crawl under there," Malfoy ordered, on the verge of hysterics. "He could be wearing an Invisibility Cloak…."

Obediently, Goyle slithered under the bed and felt around in the darkness. He came out a moment later, dusting himself off with broad palms. "Not there, sir," he said gruffly. "Nothing."

Harry felt like shouting; Malfoy had no excuse to torture him now.

Lucius rounded suddenly on Harry, his eyes blazing with hatred. "You’ve hid him, Potter," he said through gritted teeth. "You won’t escape punishment forever…" he whirled around, his cloak flying out from him, and motioned Nott and Goyle out of the room.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the door was shut once again and the light from the orb proceeded down the hall. Then he did a double-take, remembering the empty space under the bed. But how…? Where…? Who…?

Closing his eyes firmly, he lay down on the bed and fell quickly asleep, all thoughts of the absent Danady gone from his mind.

"Hermione, let me read your composition," Ron said desperately, checking his watch.

"No, I won’t," said Hermione, suddenly sever. "You’ve had ten days to finish it --"

"I only need another two inches, come on --"

They were sitting in the library before History of Magic class. Hermione was buried deep in The Autobiography of Godric Gryffindor, while Ron scrambled frantically to complete an essay for Professor Binns. "Please, Hermione?" he asked once more as the bell rang for History of Magic.

"I told you, no," said Hermione exasperatedly as she gathered her books together and left the library. Ron followed close behind, still scribbling on his paper.

"Just because you’re all right in most subjects doesn’t mean you can be so stuffy about it," he muttered. Hermione tossed her head defiantly and "hmmph"ed a bit before allowing Ron to copy a few concluding sentences from her own long scroll of parchment.

History of Magic was the dullest subject on everyone’s schedule. The most exciting thing in each lesson was when Professor Binns, the only ghost-teacher, floated through the blackboard at the beginning of class.

Today was as boring as always. For half an hour Binns had droned on about the International Warlock Convention of 1289. Now something happened that had never happened before: Hermione raised her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up from his notes, looked shocked.

"Miss -- er -- ?"

"Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets," said Hermione in a clear voice.

Students all over the classroom began to come out of their typical stupor. Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her arms and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

"My subject is History of Magic," he said, irritated. "I deal in facts, Miss Gardener, not myths and legends." Without another word he continued with his lecture, "In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers --"

He stopped abruptly. Hermione’s hand was waving in the air again.

"Miss Grant?"

"Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in fact?"

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Ron was sure that no student had ever interrupted him before.

"Yes, one could argue that," Binns replied stuffily. "However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale --"

The whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. It was evident that he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest.

"Oh, very well," he said slowly. "Let me see, the Chamber of Secrets …

"You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded by four brave men and women -- Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, and Helga Hufflepuff. They built this castle here, far from Muggle homes -- for it was in a time when magic and wizards were greatly feared by non-magical persons.

"Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff founded Hogwarts so that they had a place in which they could teach carefully chosen youngsters who showed signs of magic. The school began to grow in the number of students, and Slytherin was not happy.

"Salazar Slytherin wished to be more meticulous in the choosing of students. He disliked those of Muggle birth, and wished to purge the school of all ‘unclean’ blood. However, the three other co-founders disagreed, and the school continued as usual.

"Soon, though, Gryffindor and Slytherin had a large argument on the subject of Muggle born wizards and witches, and Slytherin left the school in a huff.

"Reliable historical sources tell us this much," he said reedily, peering at the attentive class. "But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing.

"Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all those ‘unworthy’ to study magic."

There was a silence as he finished, but it wasn’t the usual sleepy silence that usually filled Professor Binns’s classes.

"The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," he said. "Naturally, the school has been searched by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible, no more."

"Sir -- what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control, Miss Galloway."

The class exchanged nervous looks.

"I tell you, the thing does not exist," said Professor Binns. "There is no Chamber and no monster."

"But, sir," Hermione persisted, "If the chamber can only be opened by the Heir of Slytherin, no one else would be able to find it."

"Nonsense, Miss Gardenia," said Binns in an aggravated tone. "If a succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found it -- "

"But you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it, Professor --"

"That will do," Binns said sharply. "Now, if we could proceed back to the lesson… "

A moment later he began reading monotonously from his notes again, and the class had sunk into the typical torpor once more.

"I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony," Ron told Hermione as they fought their way through the teeming mass of students all wanting to drop their bags off before returning to dinner.

A few moments later they caught sight of Beatrice Walker, a first-year girl who had become friends with Ginny. Hermione and Ron knew her vaguely, but were surprised at Beatrice called out over the noise of the throng to them.

"Hey! Ron Weasley!" she fought against the tide of other students. "I just thought you should know -- a boy in my class is saying -- saying that -- that you’re --"

Before she could finish the oncoming masses swept her past.

"What was a boy in her class saying?" Ron muttered, half to himself, half to Hermione.

"That we’re the Heirs of Slytherin, I expect," Hermione said gloomily. "C’mon, we’ll be late to dinner."

"Do you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked her, knowing the answer.

"Well," she said frowning, "Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, which makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be -- well --"

"Human?" Ron supplied. Hermione nodded.

As they spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message "The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened."

"That’s where Filch’s been keeping guard," Ron muttered.

"Can’t hurt to have a poke around," Hermione said, dropping her bag. "C’mon, Filch isn’t here…"

"Scorch marks!" Ron cried, throwing himself to his hands and knees. "Here -- and here --"

"Come and look at this," said Hermione. "This is funny…."

Ron got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermione was pointing to the highest pane, where at least twenty spiders were fighting each other to squeeze through a tiny crack in the window. A long silver thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

"Have you ever seen spiders act like that?" Hermione asked musingly.

"N-no," said Ron shakily.

Hermione turned to see Ron huddled against the far wall, attempting to keep from running in the other direction.

"I -- don’t -- like -- spiders," Ron said tensely. "I don’t like the way they move."

Hermione giggled. "I forgot," she apologized.

"It’s not funny," said Ron fiercely. "If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my -- my teddy bear into a great big wriggling spider because I broke his toy broomstick … You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and…"

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was still suppressing the urge to laugh wildly, but figured they’d better get off the subject -- quick.

"That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place," she reminded him abruptly, pointing at the door to the girls’ toilet. "Come on, let’s have a look -- see why she was crying that night."

Ron drew away. "It’s a girls’ toilet," he said gruffly. "Can’t go in."

"Sure you can!" Hermione all-but-pulled him through the door, ignoring the Out of Order sign pasted thereon.

Hermione put her finger to her lips and set off toward the end stall. When she reached it she said, "Hello, Myrtle, how are you?"

Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin. "This is a girls’ bathroom," she said distrustfully as she eyed Ron. "He’s not a girl."

"No -- but I just wanted to show him how, er, nice it is in here."

She waved vaguely at the cracked mirror and dim overhead bulb. "Don’t you agree?"

"Ask her if she saw anything," Ron mouthed.

"What are you whispering?" Myrtle said accusingly. "Why do you always whisper behind my back?" she broke into dramatic sobs. "I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead --"

"No one wants to upset you, Myrtle," Hermione said smoothly. "We were just wondering --"

"No one upset me! That’s a good one," Myrtle sobbed harder. "My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along, ruining my death…."

"We wanted to know if you’d noticed something out of the ordinary, Myrtle," Hermione said quickly. "Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door a few nights ago."

"I didn’t pay attention to anything," Myrtle said dramatically. "Peeves upset me so much that I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then I remembered that I’m -- I’m --"

"Already dead?" Ron supplied helpfully.

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose a few feet in the air, and dove headfirst into the toilet. Ron guessed from the tone of her sobs that she had come to rest somewhere near the U-bend.

"Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle," Hermione said none-too-brightly. "Come on, let’s go."

The next week passed in a blur for Harry. Malfoy continued to search the manor for the absent Danady, and Harry continued to wonder where the black-haired fugitive had gone. Several times Harry had tentatively crawled under the bed himself and felt into the very corners, expecting any moment to feel a hand, foot, or lock of hair. Each time the space under the bed was completely devoid of life, except for a few ants and (once) a very large spider.

Every day, for no reason other than boredom, Harry attempted to free himself by means of the Alohomora spell, and each day the locks on his window and door remained shut, their protective spells glimmering a bright, soapy yellow.

The Arguing Room, like the space under Harry’s bed, had been empty of life and arguments since before Danady’s disappearance also. Harry figured that the layout of the house had become apparent to Malfoy also, and he took his arguments elsewhere. Harry was disappointed -- it had been better when there was always a puzzling conversation to figure out, instead of just a hum-drum day with nothing to do. He was sure that, whatever else, Malfoy and Voldemort schemed to kill him not with deadly poisons or sinister curses but by sheer boredom.

Until the week after Danady had come to Harry and then left again.

Today, unlike days before, Narcissa herself brought the breakfast-tray to Harry’s room. She seemed to be in a better mood than usual as she set the tray on the windowsill and left wordlessly, locking the door behind her. But she did not leave the door, for a moment later Harry heard her conferring in a low voice with someone whose voice he did not recognize.

Hardly breathing, he crept towards the door until he was in hearing range of their conversation. Narcissa sounded haughtily jubilant -- a bad sign, Harry was sure -- as she talked with the stranger outside of his bedroom.

"…He plans to do it soon, Isabel." That was Narcissa, and the woman -- for it was a woman, most certainly -- she was talking to was named Isabel.

"Why, madam, that is splendid." Isabel had a rich, slightly accented voice -- one completely unfamiliar to Harry. "Just a student picked randomly from the crowds?"

"I suppose so," Narcissa said carelessly. "A Muggle-born, to be sure. Lucius believes that it will be a girl -- unfortunately, not that Granger child that Potter is always with. For now, though they’ll stick to letting the Monster roam around the halls and terrorize the school." Narcissa gave a derisive laugh. "Luckily he’s said that the Master will give explicit orders not to harm a select few of the students—my Draco, among others, and your Christof."

Harry felt a chill of fear as he heard her speak of Hermione. What could they be doing to Muggle-borns?

Suddenly he remembered the first conversation in the Arguing Room -- talk about the School, the Boy, the Monster. And about the Muggle-borns.

He broke into a cold sweat suddenly, standing there halfway between the door and the bed. What were they doing at Hogwarts? What was the monster? And -- most importantly -- how did it rid the school of students with Muggle parentage?

"How long since the Chamber was last opened?" Harry was jerked out of his fearful self-debate as Isabel asked the question.

"Fifty years," Narcissa replied. "It’s been that long since the exalted Master could find a suitable candidate. Now he has, luckily."

"Who?" Isabel.

"I think it might be a first-year girl," Narcissa explained carelessly. "In fact, I believe Lucius was gloating over it being one of the children of that Weasley scum, the one working at the Ministry."

Isabel chortled. "What’ll he do with her when he’s done? The Master, I mean?"

Narcissa sniffed. "Dispose of her, of course," she said haughtily. "What else?"

Isabel was silent for a moment. "A little girl? Is that wise?"

"You question the motives of our exalted Master?" Narcissa asked frostily.

"No!" Isabel said hurriedly. "I just -- yes, it’s a very good idea. We couldn’t have someone to spread the tale, could we?"

Harry was sure that Narcissa was frowning, still irritated with Isabel for whatever she had said wrong.

"Well…" Isabel began. "I’ll go now…goodbye."

Narcissa spoke not a word of farewell, but her footsteps receded also as she followed Isabel down the hall.

Harry paced the length of the room, his forehead creased in a worried frown. He knew that, without a doubt, he couldn’t do anything to help Hogwarts or his friends—but it would bother him less if he knew what to make of the strange, cryptic conversations he had heard in captivity.

He knew little more than before, although Narcissa and Isabel’s conversation did shed light on a few small facts. First, there was a Monster at Hogwarts—one that was to be freed, to let roam the halls and do something that would terrorize the students and staff alike. What kind of monster could it be, anyway? He had no idea.

Second, at the right time this Monster would do—what? Something to Ginny Weasley, he was afraid. "Lucius was gloating over it being one of that Weasley," Narcissa had said. A first year girl…it had to be Ginny.

Third, Harry was not there to help. Not that he could have much, anyway, he reasoned, but maybe he’d’ve been able to do something better than pace like a caged animal around this room….

Fourth. Was there a fourth fact he had? Yes, something told him. His mind struggled to remember what it was…

Harry jumped as the words came back to him. Who had spoken them, anyway?

Suddenly he remembered. They were the words spoken on September the 4th, when he had first heard discussion from the Arguing Room. He strained to remember more of the words spoken.

And then he knew. They were talking about him—but of course, he’d reasoned that already—and they were talking about the same monster that was to wreak havoc on Hogwarts while he was gone. And then he felt a chill of fear, as he realized what the ‘point’ had been.

"Who could it be? Who’s the Heir?" Hermione scribbled on a scrap parchment. She slipped the note to Ron, beside her. He glanced at it and—making sure that Professor Binns didn’t notice—scrawled an answer.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look and shook her head, turning back to the ghost teacher and attempting to concentrate on the frightfully dull lecture he was giving.

"In 1882 Erik Roderique, an ambassador for the wizards, visited the goblin leader, Saronim the Scraggle-toothed, and drew up a treaty between the two warring peoples…"

Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Ron scribbled on another scrap of parchment. He folded it and tossed it unobtrusively to where she sat, mind wandering from the lecture.

"Who do you know who hates Muggle-borns?" the note read.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, and scribbled a reply.

Ron nodded slightly as he read the note, mouthing ‘I do.’

Hermione bent her head to write another note, when Professor Binns cleared his throat loudly. "The young lady with the brown hair—,"

"Hermione Granger, Professor—,"

"Yes, well, could you take a moment from your engaging conversation with this young man to tell me the name of the goblin hothead who began the First Revolution?"

Hermione blushed furiously. "Er—Ferisiat the Fool, sir?" she stammered.

Binns frowned slightly. "Please pay more attention in class, Miss Garland. Ferisiat the Fool began the Second Revolution. Can anyone tell me who began the First?"

Nobody volunteered the information, and Professor Binns went back to his lecture with a frown.

Hermione tossed Ron another note as soon as Binns was safely deep into the lecture once more.

Ron dropped his bag onto the floor and sank into an armchair. "What’s your great idea?" he asked Hermione, who had taken a seat beside him.

"Shh—not so loud," she cautioned, looking uneasily at the other students clustered throughout the large circular common room. "I agree with you about Malfoy, but we can’t be sure, unless we ask him."

Ron laughed incredulously, his face a mask of disbelief. "Ask him?" he said, forgetting to whisper. "Are you mad? Really, Hermione, I didn’t expect you to joke around like this."

"No, really, Ron," she replied calmly. "Remember that potion Snape told us about a few days ago—the Polyjuice Potion? It can turn you into someone else, at least for a little while."

"D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do in Potions that listen to Snape?" Ron muttered, but Hermione ignored him.

"The only problem is that it’s in a book in the Restricted section. I don’t know who will sign a permission slip for us. Definitely not Snape."

"Could we steal it?" Ron asked, half to himself.

Hermione shook her head. "Wouldn’t work," she replied. "I’ve read about the protective spells on the Restricted section in Hogwarts, a History—there’s no way an ordinary student could get a book from there, only teachers, and Madame Pince."

Ron frowned. "Can you think of anyone—anyone—who’d sign the slip for us? C’mon, think, Hermione."

"I’m thinking," Hermione replied crossly. "And no, I can’t think of a single one."

Ron brightened suddenly. "What about Hagrid? He might do it, if we explained it to him."

"No," Hermione shook her head. "Hagrid’s not a teacher—he’s not authorized to remove books from the Restricted section."

"Professor Aracidia?" Ron said doubtfully, thinking of the strange, aloof teacher.

"Not likely," Hermione said gloomily. "We’d have no good reason to present to him for wanting it."

"Make one up?" Ron asked hopefully.

Hermione shook her head. "Oh, forget about it," she said wearily. "There’s no way we can take that book out—Madam Pince wouldn’t allow us near there without a signed note."

Ron stood and yawned. "It’s probably time to start to Potions," he said gloomily. Hermione nodded, sighed heavily, and picked up her bag to follow him through the portrait-hole and down the many flights of stairs to Snape’s dungeon. They arrived late, and received a hot glare from Snape and five points each from Gryffindor.

The lesson was a dull one, preparing a standard sleeping-draught. Ron and Hermione worked together at Hermione’s cauldron, working mechanically as they prepared the ingredients. Beside them, Draco Malfoy worked with Dilo Niles, a burly Slytherin boy with squinty eyes and a permanent sneer.

"Working hard, aren’t you, Weasley?" Malfoy hissed out of the corner of his mouth when Snape had his back turned. "Hoping to be able to sell it for a few Knuts?" Niles sniggered sycophantically and dumped the acras roots he had been shredding into the cauldron, turning the potion a brilliant, sizzling green.

Ron reddened, and Hermione had to step on his foot as Snape turned around once more. Reluctantly Ron turned back to the cauldron, muttering angrily. Snape cast him a suspicious glance, but swept past in silence to the cauldron where Neville Longbottom worked with Seamus Finnigan. Their potion was fizzing madly and quickly turning a sickly purple. Neville, ashen-faced, was dumping acras roots and fruit fly antennae into it crazily, trying to reverse the sudden change. He stopped instinctively when Snape stopped to tower over him, a mocking sneer on his face.

"Mister Longbottom," he said loudly, "Any first-year student should know that the powdered newt skin goes in before the acras roots or the potion would be useless."

"But s-Sir, I—," Neville began, terrified, but Snape cut him off.

"Finnigan, why didn’t you tell him that the newt skin went in first?"

Seamus paled. "I—I was preparing the dragonsteeth, sir," he stammered.

Snape sneered. "Ten points from Gryffindor, for poor work on the part of Longbottom," he snapped, "And another five for negligence on the part of Finnigan." He moved away, leaving Seamus and Neville gaping in horror.

"Miss Patil, Miss Brown, what is this?" Snape stopped once more to peer threateningly into the murky gray depths of their slowly bubbling draught.

"I—I don’t know, sir," Parvati whimpered. Lavender shrank away from Snape’s cold stare, pressing herself against the damp stone wall.

"Clearly, you did not bring the water to a full boil before adding the pokum flowers. That will be another two points from Gryffindor for hastiness." Snape smiled and glided off to Malfoy’s cauldron, inspecting the bright green potion with satisfaction. Malfoy smirked at Ron as Snape praised the quality and color of his sleeping draught (and giving five points to Slytherin for "a job well done") before he moved on to where Ron and Hermione worked. Hastily Ron shoved the acras roots in and their potion, too, turned green and began to bubble furiously, but Snape took a point off nevertheless for a drop that splashed to the floor, burning a small hole in the stone floor and filling the dungeon with a slightly sulfury odor.

Ron muttered angrily under his breath as they left the dungeon. Hermione walked in stony silence, eyes burning with fierce anger. "That wasn’t fair," she said finally to Ron. "Our potion was perfect—and Malfoy spilled more than we did."

Ron blew out his breath in exasperation. "Yeah," he said. They quieted once more as they passed a group of first-years going to Transfiguration, and did not resume conversing in low voices until they had left the castle and were crossing the grounds to where Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, waited. "Greenhouse Three today, chaps," she said cheerfully when they had all arrived. She led them down to the end of the row of greenhouses and entered one with a large silver 3 painted over the doorway. Murmuring excitedly the class followed her—they had never been in Greenhouse Three before, having worked only in One and Two.

Inside they all peeled off their heavy cloaks and scarves, setting them by the door and out of the reach of the many inquisitive carnivorous plants inhabiting the greenhouse. Professor Sprout gestured to a long table covered with earmuffs of all different colors and sizes and asked each student to take a pair. When the scramble had passed—each student tried to avoid being left with one pair which was pink and fluffy—she pointed to a large, leafy plant and outlined the lesson for them.

"Today we will be repotting Mandrakes again," she said authoritatively. "I’m going to show you how it’s done again. Please put on your earmuffs until I give the thumbs-up signal. I know you’ve done this, but if something would go wrong—these Mandrakes have become very precious to the school."

Each student did as she directed, some looking bored or rebellious at having to re-do a rather boring job. Professor Sprout carefully put her own earmuffs on and slid the pot towards her. With a swift motion she pulled the plant up from the soil it was potted in to show a grubby green baby squalling at the top of its lungs. Without hesitation she placed it in the second pot and covered it until, once more, nothing but the leaves was showing. Wiping the dirt off her hands, she gave the thumbs-up signal and took off her own earmuffs.

"Four to a table," she said briskly when they had all followed her example. Ron moved towards Hermione and they found a table where two other students, both Hufflepuffs, were already pulling clay pots toward themselves. For a moment they were all busy readying the new pot; then the earmuff signal was given and they—as quickly as possible—shifted the Mandrakes from one pot to the next.

When all the Mandrakes had been repotted, Professor Sprout gave the thumbs-up signal and everyone took off their earmuffs. "Good work, class. Next lesson we’ll work with the Mandrakes again…we need to have as many in good shape as possible, as soon as possible. In the meantime, read up on their healing properties please, and have a full page of notes for me by next week. Now go—you don’t want to be late for Transfiguration."

Students, after picking cloaks back up and discarding earmuffs once more, streamed through the small doorway of the greenhouse. Hermione lingered hesitantly inside the doorway, with Ron calling irritatedly for her to come, when Professor Sprout noticed her and asked her what she wanted.

"Er, Professor," she said cautiously, "I was wondering where you could find the recipe for a Mandrake draught. Not that I’d make one," she added hastily, "But—er—,"

"Background reading?" Professor Sprout suggested helpfully. "Well…"

"Yes?"

"I suppose that I could let you see it. But you must not try it, Miss Granger—it is serious magic. The book with the potion is in the Restricted section, but I suppose I could sign the note for you if you promised not to try it, and to return the book to Madam Pince after two days."

Rummaging in her cloak, she pulled an official-looking parchment and a large quill from its folds and proceeded to write the name of the book and to sign the permission slip. Hermione, looking over her shoulder, turned white and looked at Ron, eyes wide.

She nearly snatched the permission slip from Professor Sprout when she had finished, thanking her breathlessly as she pulled on her cloak and ran outside to where Ron stood, waiting.

She pulled him along until they were several greenhouses down, and then showed him the note. Her hands shook so much that he took it from her and stared, puzzled, at it.

"Moste Potente Potions?" Ron asked. "What’s so special about that?"

"That’s the book with the Polyjuice Potion in it," Hermione said reverently.

"Oh—that," Ron said carelessly, giving the note back to Hermione. "Well—yeah, it’s cool," he said finally as she looked at him angrily, "But I thought you had something—well—you know—,"

"No, I don’t know," Hermione said frostily. "Don’t you realize what we can do with this?" she waved the note in front of him again for good measure. "Don’t you realize?"

Ron pushed it away. "Yeah, well, you do know that we’d be breaking about a hundred school rules if we did do this?"

Hermione stared at him coldly. "Well, I guess if bad grades are worse than attacks on Muggle-borns, you don’t have to come," she said, and turned away.

"Wait!" Ron called, running after her. "Fine, fine, I’ll do it. I never thought I’d see you persuading me to break rules, though," he added.

Hermione glared at him and marched off, the precious note clutched tightly in her closed fist.

The silvery moon filtered weirdly through the thick, warped glass of the window in Harry’s room. He guessed that it was near midnight, judging from the silence of the house around him. The only sound was the rain pattering on the roof—how high above him was it, he wondered. It had been raining now for five days straight—he had begun to wonder if it was some weather spell put in effect by Malfoy, or Voldemort, or someone else, for no reason more than to dampen his spirits as easily as the earth outside.

Ever since he’d heard Narcissa and Isabel talking—long after he’d figured as much of the message out as he could—he had tried to find out who Isabel was. He’d even gone so far as to mention her casually to Narcissa, one rare occasion when she brought his breakfast tray into the room herself, instead of simply magicking it in at the appropriate time. Narcissa had gone paper-white, glared at him through cold grey eyes, and left without another word.

Several times Harry had attempted to keep a key-hole vigil, to watch for any passers-by whose appearance fitted Isabel’s voice, but the key-hole was so small and the hall outside so large that it was quite hopeless.

Now he lay, staring at the moon, thinking of the horrid days he’d spent in the Malfoy Manor. Was it one month? Two? He could not remember exactly when he had been caught—it was that terrible day in Knockturn Alley, that was all he could remember—and he couldn’t tell what the current date was, either. He knew only that it was well into the month of November, and this only because the first snowfall had covered the Malfoy grounds with a thick blanket of grey snow only two days before. Even the snow, white and sparkling at Hogwarts School, was dismal and grey here.

Harry started and sat up in bed, reaching for his glasses. Surreptitiously he slid off the four-poster bed and, as his heart began to beat faster, lifted the skirt.

Why he’d expected to find the owner of the strange, murmuring voice there, he couldn’t say—except for the fact that it had seemed to come from quite near, if not actually from, Harry. In any case, the carpet underneath was just as bare as ever, except for a few dust-bunnies that had formed in the corners.

Shaking slightly, he climbed back into bed as if he expected the owner of the voice to be in it. After he’d sat for several more minutes, collecting his scattered wits, he said softly, "Find is? What’s is? Who’re you?"

There was no answer, and Harry scolded himself fiercely for talking to a disembodied voice muttering nonsense phrases. He shut his eyes firmly, and fell asleep.

Harry woke once more in a cold sweat. Is, what is is? He thought groggily. He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until the disembodied voice answered. Not answered, he amended, but—talked again.

The voice was beginning to sound vaguely familiar, although Harry could not yet place it. "What is is?" he asked again, louder.

"Is?" the voice said in surprise, as if noticing Harry’s question for the first time. "Do you know where Is is?"

Harry blew out his breath in exasperation. "No, I don’t," he said crossly. "Since I don’t even know what is is, how could I know where it was?"

The voice began to breathe in harsh, ragged gasps. Now Harry was beginning to think that there was someone else in the room with him, and his skin began to crawl.

"What pain?" he asked cautiously, and then, "Who are you, anyway? Who’s Is?"

"You know me, boy—you’ve seen me—oh, Is, where are you?" the person gave a wretched sob.

"You aren’t—," Harry began, and then stopped.

"I’m not who?" the person stopped ranting about Is long enough to ask.

"Not—not Mr. Danady, are you?"

"Of course I am," the voice said. "Now will you help me find Is?"

"I can’t help you find Is or anyone else if you don’t come out and show me that you’re really who you are," Harry said crossly.

To his horror, a hand began to edge its way out from under the bed, followed by another, and then a man’s head. Soon Danady stood before him, looking much worse than when he had stood behind Lucius Malfoy and watched him torture Harry. His thick black hair was disheveled; his eyes were bloodshot and tear filled.

Harry stifled the urge to scream. Danady seemed to sense this, for he croaked hoarsely, "You’re wondering where I came from, aren’t you?"

Harry nodded, unsure of what to say.

"I need water—then I will tell you."

Soft footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Harry pushed Danady under the bed once more, hissing "I’ll get you water—just a minute—,"

A moment later the door opened, though no light filled the room. Harry could hardly see the figure outlined in the doorway, had no idea who it was—all he could see was thick, dark hair falling to her waist.

Harry was frozen to the spot in fear; scared that whoever it was had heard him conversing with the fugitive.

The woman did not speak, but silently padded into the room. She held an unlit candle, Harry now noticed, and her wand was clutched tightly in the other hand. As soon as she was far enough in she shoved the door closed once more with her foot, and the faint light that had come from the hallway receded until the room was completely dark.

"Who—who are you?" Harry asked finally, as the woman made no other move. It wasn’t Narcissa, that was sure—and thank goodness, he thought in relief.

The woman prodded her candle with her wand, and a small, flickering flame took life on the wick. As it illuminated the stranger, Harry saw that she had finely cut features and large, infinitely dark eyes staring out of a gold-skinned face.

"My name—my name is Isabel Garcia," she whispered. Harry gave a start—this was Isabel, who he had heard talking to Narcissa just the other day…

Harry swallowed, remembering the nasty way she had laughed as Narcissa talked of the terror at Hogwarts. "What d’you want?" he asked, louder than he meant to.

"Ssh!" Isabel cast a frightened look around, as if the walls themselves could hear her. "Do not speak loudly—my brother-in-law will not be happy if he finds me here."

"Your brother in law?" Harry asked incredulously. "You can’t mean Lucius Malfoy, can you?"

Isabel nodded. "Yes, I do mean Lucius," she said with a tone of contempt. As she made no more move to speak, Harry asked her what she had come for once more.

"I—I’m seeking my—my husband. He disappeared some time ago, and did not leave word. I—I’ve a reason to believe that he’s—that you’re hiding him."

Harry, who had begun to soften towards the frightened woman, clammed up once more. "I don’t know who you mean," he said stiffly. "Now, could you please go out and let me sleep?" he turned over and lay down, hoping she would take the hint.

"But—please," Isabel began, a note of desperation in her voice. "I must find him, before I lea—before it is too late."

"Who?" Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of caution.

"My husband—oh, please don’t give us away. He’s—Arrlimon Mal—I mean, Arrlimon Danady," Isabel stammered. "Have you seen him? Oh, have you seen him?"

Harry watched her distrustfully. Finally he asked, "Are you Is?"

Isabel looked startled for a moment, and then the ghost of a smile flitted across her frightened face. "Yes," she said softly, "That’s what he used to call me."

A tear dropped onto the candle flame, making it sputter horribly, casting Isabel’s face into the shadows.

"I think I can help," Harry said decisively, "If you are Is."

"I am," Isabel said, nodding hopefully.

"Mr. Danady," Harry called softly, "You can come out."

For a moment nothing happened, but then Danady materialized in the corner of the room farthest from the window. A silvery invisibility cloak flowed around his feet, but he paid no attention to it as he gave a startled cry and ran across the room to where Isabel stood.

"Is," he croaked. He held her hands tightly, after placing the sputtering candle gently on the windowsill.

"Arrlimon," she whispered, and then turned to Harry. "Thank you," she said simply. "Thank you for not reporting me—us. If Lucius had found out—,"

She shuddered. Danady let go her hands and came to where Harry sat on the bed.

"Er…sit down," Harry said awkwardly.

Danady sat slowly at the foot of the bed, and Isabel came to alight beside him. "You deserve an explanation," she said to Harry. "We must go soon, before our noise is heard. But before that—ask us anything, we—I, at least—will try to answer."

Danady nodded.

"Er…" Harry paused, thinking. "Why are you both here? I thought you were Malfoy’s sister, Mrs. Danady—,"

"Please, call me Isabel," she said warmly.

"Isabel," Harry amended. "Anyway, I thought you were Lucius Malfoy’s sister?"

"No," Danady said. "I am his brother."

Harry gaped at him. "You—then why—,"

Danady smiled thinly. "Why was he after me?"

Harry nodded.

"Because he figured it out, I suppose." A weary expression had settled on Danady’s face. "After he—after I stopped him performing the Cruciatus curse again, he began to get suspicious. He turned on me after you left…"

Danady shuddered uncontrollably. Isabel squeezed his hand reassuringly, as if to say Go on—no one will turn you in.

Taking control of himself once more, Danady continued his narrative, his voice bleak and desolate. "When he had finished he left me—for dead. I was deeply unconscious, could not move, could not think. When I woke it was dark, and the moon had gone behind a cloud. In the utter darkness I stumbled up the many flights of stairs to the only trustworthy person I knew of—Harry Potter, the Malfoy hostage.

"I’m sorry to have caused you all that trouble, Harry," he added. "Really I am. I didn’t realize at the time what would happen…"

"Er…it’s all right," Harry said awkwardly.

Danady hung his head. "No, it’s not," he whispered. "I’ll make it up to you somehow."

Harry turned red. "No, really," he said. "You don’t have to."

"But I will," Danady insisted. "I don’t know what I can do, but I’m sure I’ll find a way—,"

"Mr. Danady," Harry said suddenly to change the subject. "When you came in I dragged you under my bed, but you weren’t there—not even under that Invisibility cloak—when Malfoy and his gang looked. Where’d you go?"

"I wasn’t really unconscious, just fatigued," Danady replied. "I Apparated to a safe location, and spent a day there until I hoped the suspicion would clear. Then, not wanting to put the friends I was staying with in a dangerous position, I Apparated back here and wandered around under the cloak, stealing meager amounts of food and water to live by.

"But I haven’t been myself these two weeks," he concluded. "In fact, I hardly remember any of it—I think I wasn’t quite in my right mind, and I was set on finding Is to take her away from here. But even when I saw her, I dared not approach her—I was afraid she wouldn’t want to go, that she had accepted the way of life here."

Isabel shook her head violently. "I could never do that," she whispered passionately. "The ways of life are—terrible here."

"Mrs. Dana—Isabel," Harry asked, "I heard you—well, I heard you talking to Mrs. Malfoy the other day and, if you don’t mind my saying so, you sounded like you agreed." Harry reddened as he said it so bluntly, but Isabel nodded, her face tight.

"I can see why you’d ask that, Harry," she said consideringly. "I—when Arrlimon was sent here, I couldn’t help but follow—this was several years ago. Of course, none of the household knew of our marriage, so we masqueraded as Arrlimon Danady—Lucius and Narcissa were the only ones who knew the truth about Arrlimon, that he was a Malfoy—and I as Isabel Cortez, a Spanish Dark-supporter of sorts. Thankfully, I was accepted without another thought."

"Wait, before you go on," Harry broke in. "What did you mean—"When Arrlimon was sent here?" That doesn’t make sense. Sent here? By whom? For what? And when did he leave, and when did he change his name?"

Isabel smiled. "I see I am leaving a lot out," she admitted. "I will try to answer your questions before I continue.

"To your first: Arrlimon was sent here by the Head of the Aurors, whose name I cannot say for fear we should be overheard. I’ll come back to that in just a moment.

"Next I’ll have to answer your last question—when did he leave, and when did he change his name from Malfoy to Danady.

"Arrlimon, bless him, never quite agreed with the ways of his family, although he didn’t show it. He tried valiantly to be passed off as just another Voldemort-supporter among his family, and even got himself sorted into Slytherin house at Hogwarts, but inside he knew it was wrong." Isabel smiled fondly at Danady and then continued.

"We met in his last year at Hogwarts. I was an exchange student for my seventh and final year at school, and we met and fell in love. Of course no one could know—I vehemently and openly opposed the Dark Lord and his supporters. That was what made it hard for me to pass off as a Dark-supporter here—I had to change my name and my attitude before Narcissa would accept me.

"When Arrlimon and I graduated, he left his family and we were married—and then he began the rigorous Auror’s training. It was nightmarish—the horrible missions he’d be sent on to test his courage and endurance, while I waited at home for him to return—fearing all the while that he might not.

"Finally, though, it got better: he completed his training, and began the steady rise to one of the top Aurors in Britain. Now he’d be gone frequently, but I could rest more easily knowing that he had the skill to deal with the situations he was placed in. And then, five months ago, the Head Auror called on us one day with another, more dangerous and more time consuming request.

"He asked that both of us—not just Arrlimon—return to the Malfoy manor, not as a couple but as two Dark-supporters, and at different times. He feared that there was a plot hatching, and he asked us to watch for it. We agreed, and Arrlimon set off that day to re-establish family connections, but under the Auror name he had assumed: Danady.

"And here I come back to when we arrived. Arrlimon, thank goodness, was accepted quickly—he had only to present Lucius and Narcissa with false "evidence" of his Dark workings. I, arriving a month and a half later, was also taken in to the inner circle without question." She sighed. "Truly, all you need here is to present someone with proof of innocents you’ve murdered, and—," she shuddered.

"We, Arrlimon and I, had to become somewhat callous to survive here," she resumed. "We stood by and watched horrible deeds happening—tortures, murders, and more—without the power to interfere, or at least not yet. You must see," she said beseechingly, "We could not help those poor people—if we did then we would have put the whole wizarding world at stake by revealing our identity. There are ways to worm information out of even one so closemouthed as a top Auror. Do you see, Harry, why we had to do it?"

Harry nodded, his face drawn as he listened to Isabel recount her horrible story.

"What’s more than that, we had to pretend to agree—there were even times when we had to suggest. Those were the worst." Her face wore a mask of agony, and she choked out the words now—it was evident that she hadn’t liked the tasks assigned to her.

"That was why," she finally said, with effort, "Arrlimon made the first moves in the garden. Lucius is very perceptive—he would’ve guessed, had he seen you, that Arrlimon had seen you first—even if he hadn’t. And then we would both have been discovered.

"Yet he couldn’t bear to watch what Lucius did to you," she continued bravely, "And he—he knocked away the wand. Panicking, he made up an excuse about the Cruciatus curse being too powerful—but Lucius saw through it, and guessed what he didn’t already know."

"You know the story from there," Danady said gently. "But—there is something that you do not know."

"First," Harry said, remembering something from Isabel’s conversation with Narcissa, "Who is Christof?"

Isabel smiled. "Christof is our son," she said. "A second-year at Hogwarts. He shares are views, and he, like his father, managed to be sorted into Slytherin and befriended Draco Malfoy. He is a very brave boy, for he must keep up his guard always so that Draco won’t suspect…"

"Oh," said Harry. "Now—what were you saying before?"

But before either of them could begin, more footsteps—loud ones this time—sounded outside. "Go," Harry whispered frantically. "Go, now, Apparate!" A moment later, they had gone, and Harry scrambled to hide the Invisibility cloak Danady had accidentally left behind. The footsteps, however, receded along the hallway—obviously not headed towards his bedroom.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and lay back on the pillows, thinking on what Isabel and Danady had told him.

The next day in Potions, Hermione was very obviously distracted and kept dumping ingredients into the potion in the wrong order, causing Snape to offer sneering remarks about hers and Ron’s sickly Confusing Concoction.

"Miss Granger, it is clear that you did not wait for the bubbling to settle before added the snakes’ tongues. That will be three points from Gryffindor."

Several other Gryffindors shot nasty looks at Hermione, as Snape deducted point after point after point due to her careless preoccupation. At one period she added too much of one ingredient (boiled eelskin), causing it to bubble up frantically just as Ron was reaching in to stir, burning him badly.

Snape looked daggers at Hermione after this, and sent Ron up to the hospital wing. "Miss Granger, that will be twenty points from Gryffindor"—there was a startled gasp—"for carelessness resulting in injury. Miss Parkinson, would you please help Miss Granger with her Concoction."

Smirking, Pansy Parkinson—a nasty-tempered Slytherin girl who ogled Draco Malfoy wherever he went—stepped up beside Hermione, shoving her sideways as she did so.

Hermione gritted her teeth and stirred, making herself focus more on the Confusing Concoction and less on the Polyjuice Potion.
* * *

Meanwhile, Ron was faring badly in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was rubbing brilliant green salve on it, which stung badly. "It’s a bad burn," she’d said shortly when he entered. "Bleeding, too. I don’t know how fast I’ll be able to fix it."

"But," Ron had said, "You don’t mean that you’d keep me long—I thought you could fix things like burns in an instant!"

"I can," Madam Pomfrey said grimly, "Fix burns. But this is no ordinary burn. The acid in the potion (what did the girl think she was doing) seems to have wormed its way inside your hand, and it could do some serious damage if it isn’t treated right."

"So, how long will I have to stay?" Ron asked gloomily, picturing three, four, or even five hours ahead spent in the hospital wing.

"Most likely all night," Madam Pomfrey said, rubbing the salve harder. Ron winced, and she stopped. "That’s all for now," she said. "We’ll have to do that every hour for fourteen hours, and you’ll have to take these—," she held up a large bottle of brilliantly orange pills—"Two every four hours until you’re discharged. Which will be when I’m done with the salve."

Ron groaned; it was only eight p.m. right now. "All night?" he asked resignedly. "Are you positive?"

"Yes," Madam Pomfrey said. "I’m sorry, but it will fix it. You really should be more careful in the future," she added severely. "Severus’ potions can be dangerous."

Ron nodded and sat down, drawing out a spellbook to read up in. It would be a long night.

Harry was pacing up and down the room, his mind wandering idly, when Isabel and Danady appeared, startling him greatly. Danady looked very different then he had last night—his black hair was brushed and trimmed and his eyes were no longer bloodshot. His robes, too, were clean and mended, and there was no sign that he had spent the past few weeks as a desparate fugitive, relying solely on an Invisibility cloak to feed him and safeguard him from the wrath of his brother, Lucius Malfoy.

"We’ve come to tell you what we have learned, for we think you should know," Danady said. "And, to say goodbye. We are of no use at this post, since I have been found out and now—since her disappearance last night—Isabel is cast into suspicion."

Harry was nonplussed. "What d’you mean, tell you what we have learned?" he asked.

"What we have found about the plot—the plot to destroy Hogwarts," Isabel supplied. "The very one that we were told to watch for by the Head Auror."

"Oh," Harry said. "Er…have a seat. Sorry there isn’t anything to sit on but the bed…"

Isabel smiled, and sat down. She pulled Danady down beside her, and he began:

"I’m sure that a boy as intelligent as you has heard conversation around the house about certain people, places, and things—,"

"The Boy, the Monster, and the School?" Harry asked. Danady nodded.

"Yes—and I’m sure that you’ve guessed what the Boy and the School are." He grinned suddenly. "I must say that I’m responsible for some of that—I lured Lucius and Mr. Nott into the study below you to argue about it, giving up as much information as I could—I figured you’d hear, and decided that it was right you should know."

"Er…thanks," Harry said.

"You’re welcome." Danady gave another brief smile. "It was—it was the most I could do."

"Go on," Isabel prompted.

"Oh yes. You know about the Boy and the School—,"

"And the Muggle-borns," Harry put in.

"Yes, and the Muggle-borns. But do you know about the Monster? Do you know how the plan all ties together?"

"No," Harry said dubiously. "How does it?"

"Have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?" Danady asked.

"No," Harry said again.

Danady sighed. "When Hogwarts was founded by Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, they had disagreements—Slytherin believed that those accepted at Hogwarts should be pure-blood only; the others thought that anyone should be admitted. The argument came to a head at one time, and Slytherin left the school.

"Most wizards know this. What they do not know, and believe only to be legend, is this: Slytherin had built a secret chamber under the school—I believe it is situated under the lake, although you can reach it through one of the bathrooms. But that is not all: Slytherin, a Parslemouth, could talk to snakes, and he locked a terrible monster in the secret chamber before he left the school. This monster was a Basilisk—a giant snake so magically powerful that, along with having deadly venomous fangs, if you look in in the eye it will kill you."

"Wow," Harry breathed. "That thing is under Hogwarts? Or rather, under the lake? But why?"

"You remember I said that Slytherin hated Muggle-borns and wished to admit only pure-blood wizards and witches to the school?" When Harry nodded, he continued. "Well, Slytherin left this monster so that when his true Heir came to the school he could unseal the Chamber and release the horror within, to purge the school of unclean blood—that is, the Basilisk."

"And you say it’s out now?" Harry asked, fear chilling him to the bone. "Running loose at Hogwarts?"

Danady nodded grimly. "Yes," he said. "As far as I can tell, there have been no deaths yet—only a cat that was Petrified, that is, turned to stone. But much worse will be done before it is over…" Danady shuddered and a bit of the haunted, crazed look of the night before came into his eyes. "Few will remain," he said hoarsely.

"You’ve left out many parts, Arrlimon," Isabel reminded him gently. But then, as she saw the anguish he was in, she herself continued.

"What Arrlimon did not say is this: the Heir of Slytherin is none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort." She waited to let this sink in, then continued. "The other was—and I’m sure that you have guessed this—that, originally, you were to have been the ideal target. It just so happened that my brother-in-law found a different way to—to accomplish his mission. An easier one, from what I’ve heard from Narcissa."

Danady looked up, his eyes still haunted. "But they didn’t call it off," he said bleakly. "I was there when the decision was made—I did my best to persuade Lucius and Voldemort that it would be best to let the monster remain in the Chamber, but my words held no weight with either of them. They went ahead, planning to destroy Hogwarts, student by student and teacher by teacher—I tried to stop them, I tried! I argued that with Albus Dumbledore at the head, their plan would get nowhere—but once more, my words were cast aside. Nothing helped."

He shuddered, and Isabel reached over comfortingly. "You did the best you could," she said softly. "Sometimes, that is all you can do."

But Danady was oblivious of the soothing words. He looked pleadingly at Harry, his eyes seeking forgiveness. "Harry, you must believe me," he said desolately. "I know how much Hogwarts means to you—how much your friends, your teachers mean to you—I feel responsible for all that is happening now. If only I had been here longer, perhaps my words would have held more importance—,"

"Words, from you or even from your brother, would not have swayed the Dark Lord when he was set on releasing the Basilisk," Isabel said firmly. "Arrlimon, you must get control of your emotions."

Harry, who had been silent during this interchange, spoke forth hesitantly. "Isabel—Mr. Danady—I have a question."

Isabel looked up, her face apologetic. "I’m so sorry, Harry," she said. "I hadn’t finished—but I do not know how to finish, so it is just as well. Please, ask anything."

Harry fought to keep his voice steady as he asked, "What exactly does Voldemort plan to do, using the Basilisk?"

"Pick the Muggle-borns and friends of Muggles and Muggle-borns—in short, every student but those in Slytherin—off one by one, until a very small class is left—and a very few teachers, as well." Isabel stopped for a moment, although this time Harry could not tell what for, before she continued stonily. "Dumbledore, although Voldemort has no power to kill him, will be safely removed from the school—voted off by the board of trustees, and kept at bay by the Dark supporters among the Ministry. How exactly they will accomplish this I do not know, but it will be done—Narcissa was sure of that."

"Will—," Harry began. Will Ron and Hermione become victims, too? he wanted to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to face the inevitable answer. Danady, however, seemed to sense the question waiting to be ask, and nodded. "Everyone," he said. "Everyone who does not support the Dark. Hogwarts will be turned into an Institution for Dark Wizards-in-training."

Tears of rage welled up in Harry’s eyes as he thought of Hogwarts, his real home, and his friends there—all destroyed, if Voldemort had his way. He jumped from the bed and began to pace angrily, balling his hands into fists. "HOW CAN HE DO THAT?" he shouted, and was awarded with a look of consternation on the faces of Isabel and Danady.

"I know how you feel, Harry," Isabel said desparately, "But please—please, Harry, don’t shout—if Lucius found us here—the work we’ve done for the Head Auror—,"

But it was too late. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and a moment later the door flew open with a loud bang. Lucius Malfoy stood there, a trimphant gleam in his pale eyes as he pointed his wand at Danady. A moment later two masked followers drew behind him, wands covering Harry and Isabel.

"Get up!" Malfoy shouted to Danady, who stood slowly. His hand strayed to his wand, but before he could draw it Malfoy shouted something and a jet of orange light intercepted his hand, creating a large red welt where the curse had struck.

Rage gripped Harry suddenly, and he rushed at Malfoy. Before he could reach him, however, Malfoy had pointed his wand at Harry.

"Avada Kadavra," he shouted.

Ron watched, bored, as a dark shape fluttered across the dark sky outside the window of the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey came bustling up, holding a pair of loose polka-dotted pajamas in one hand and a set of paper curtains in the other.

"Here," she said, handing the pajamas to Ron. She proceeded to hang the curtains around his bed, and ordered him to "go inside and change, it’s getting late."

Without protesting Ron drew the curtains around him, and changed slowly into the gaudy pajamas. His hand smarted slightly from the last handful of salve rubbed into it, and the pain made him tired even this early. When he was done, he drew back the curtains and slowly climbed into bed, not even waiting for Madam Pomfrey to remove them.

"Good night, dear," she said to an almost-asleep Ron when she did come to take them down. "Miss Granger wanted to see you a few minutes ago, but I said No, dear, he’s due for another dose of salve."

"Mmm," Ron murmured.

"I’m sorry," Madam Pomfrey continued, "If you wanted to see her. Perhaps tomorrow morning, if you’re still here, I’ll admit her."

"Mmm," Ron said again, and fell asleep.

Several hours later—he could not tell exactly how many—Ron woke again. At first he could not tell what had woken him, but then he heard the soft murmur of several voices by the bed next to him. "Careful," came Dumbledore’s voice. Ron sat up slightly on one elbow and peered through the darkness to where Dumbledore and McGonagall were carrying what looked like a statue towards the bed.

"Easy," Dumbledore murmured, and there was a dull thud as the statue was set on the bed. "Go get Madam Pomfrey, Minerva."

Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Ron’s bed and out of sight. A moment later she hurried back, followed closely by Madam Pomfrey.

Madam Pomfrey drew her breath in sharply. "Whatever could have happened?" she asked in a whisper.

"Another attack," Dumbledore said seriously. "Minerva found her on the stairs."

Ron’s stomach gave a lurch. Slowly he raised himself up further and peered across to the next bed until he could see the statue. A ray of moonlight lanced across its staring face.

It was Caroline O’Connor, a Ravenclaw first-year who Ron knew faintly through Ginny. Caroline was known throughout the school as being entranced with cameras and wizard film, for—being Muggle-born—the idea of shifting pictures was quite a novelty. Around her neck was a wide strap holding a camera, which was held up in front of her face as if she had been caught while taking a picture.

"You don’t think she managed to get a picture of the attacker, do you?" Professor McGonagall asked eagerly.

Wordlessly, Dumbledore wrenched the camera out of Caroline’s grip. Carefully, he opened the back.

"Good gracious!" ejaculated Madam Pomfrey.

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Ron caught the smell of burnt plastic.

"Melted," said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. "All melted…"

"What does this mean, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked urgently.

"It means," said Dumbledore, "That the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again."

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

"But Albus…surely…who?"

"The question is not who," said Dumbledore, his eyes on Caroline. "The question is, how…"

And from what Ron could see of Professor McGonagall’s shadowy face, she didn’t understand this any better than he did.

Ron awoke the next morning, Saturday, to bright sunshine. He looked quickly over at Caroline’s bed, but the curtains were now blocking her from the curious view of passers-by. Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray. "It’s all finished," she said brightly. "When you’re done eating you may leave."

Ron glanced at his hand. There was no sign of the previous days’ burn—the green salve had evidently done its work well.

He dressed quickly and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Hermione about Caroline. He found her sitting in an armchair drawn up near the fire, poring over the contents of Moste Potente Potions.

"Hermione, there’s something I’ve got to tell you," he whispered, pulling a stool close to her chair. "Caroline O’Connor, that girl from Ravenclaw who Ginny knows. You know who I mean?"

Hermione’s eyes widened. "Is she Muggle-born?"

"She must be," Ron said, "Or else she’d never’ve been attacked."

"We’ve got to start on the Polyjuice Potion as soon as possible," said Hermione, a determined glint in her eye. "The sooner we worm a confession out of Malfoy, the better."

"Yeah," Ron agreed fervently. Hermione glanced suspiciously at him, but didn’t ask questions.

"I don’t understand why the film burnt up, though," she said thoughtfully after a moment. "Or what Professor Dumbledore meant about it being open ‘again’, and the same person as before." She blew out her breath in exasperation. "I don’t understand much of what’s going on," she admitted.

"Yeah, neither do I," said Ron, staring into the fire.

"Some of these ingredients are really difficult to come by," Hermione said, changing the subject and pointing at the Polyjuice Potion recipe. "Lacewing flies, leeches, knotgrass, fluxweed," she murmured. "Those will be easy, they’re in the student-store cupboard. But look at this—powdered horn of a bicorn—shredded skin of a boomslang—I have no idea how we’ll get those. I suppose we’ll have to break into Snape’s store for them," she added thoughtfully.

Ron paled. "Snape’s private store?" he repeated faintly. "Hermione, we could get expelled for doing this…"

"Well, if you’re going to chicken out, then fine," Hermione said, her eyes flashing. "I don’t want to get expelled, but I think attacking Muggle-borns is much worse. But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Malfoy, I’ll go and hand the book back to Madam Pince."

"I told you I’d do it, Hermione," Ron said. "Just—Snape’s private stores—," he stopped at the look Hermione gave him. "Er—how long will it take to make?" He asked quickly.

"Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have to be stewed for twenty-one days…I’d say it’d be about a month, if we can get all the ingredients."

And without another word, she turned away from him to continue studying the recipe.

A flash of green light filled the room, and Harry closed his eyes, awaiting something he did not know—when something large hurtled across the room to stand in front of him. A moment later Danady lay before him on the floor, lifeless.

Harry gaped at him for a moment, and then he heard Isabel’s thin sobs and saw Malfoy’s white, angry face.

"So," he said softly, "The traitor has died to save you. All the better, for now he is out of the way and the exulted Master may still carry out his plans. Take her!" he barked suddenly at the two masked men who still stood behind him in the doorway. They hurried forward, wands trained on Isabel, and performed a curse that Harry could not see—a moment later she was being suspended like a large puppet, and walked out of the room.

"Is she—," Harry began, but Lucius Malfoy shook his head. "Oh no," he said with a smile, "She is not dead. The useful little Listening Charm that I placed on your room yesterday allowed me to listen in on both your conversations, last night and this morning. I heard much that was interesting to me—and I’m sure that I can get more from young Miss Garcia, using the right keys.

"But you, boy, what will I do with you? It is no longer safe to keep you here, in a normal bedroom with little more than protective locking spells to safeguard it—for not even I foresaw that you would have need of anti-Apparition charms, too. I will think about it, then," he added to himself. "Now that we have the spies with us, no instant action needs to be taken…"

Without another word to Harry he whirled around and left the room.

Harry walked slowly back to the bed, and—for the first time since the night before—he examined the Invisibility Cloak that Danady had worn.

It looked no different than his own. Both were made from the same silvery, fluid substance, and both did their job equally well—and the one now in his hands could be the key to escaping from the Malfoy manor.

He hid the cloak quickly beneath his robes as the door opened again. Narcissa entered with a tray of food; she looked as if she was in a better mood than the night before and—unlike previous days—was willing to explain even to Harry the cause of her glee.

"So, boy, is what Lucius tells me true? You helped that traitoress Isabel and her husband to escape? It’s all taken care of, now…Lucius tells me you are to be put someplace no one will find you—,"

"And I don’t expect you to confide in a prisoner, Narcissa," said a cold, drawling voice. Narcissa whirled around, startled, to confront Mr. Malfoy—for it was he who stood in the doorway. "Really," he continued, taking a step inside, "Your delight at the capture of the traitorous scum Isabel Garcia shouldn’t lead you so low as to converse with the son of James Potter."

"Lucius—I did not mean—I wasn’t really—," Narcissa stammered. Swiftly she set the tray down, and muttered something about going downstairs. Without another word she swept passed him, her face brilliantly pink.

He turned to Harry, smirking slightly. "Come with me," he said. "You won’t need to bring the tray. And you won’t be back here."

Clutching the bulge in his robes that was the Invisibility Cloak and hoping Malfoy wouldn’t notice, Harry followed sullenly as he was led through endless purple-carpeted corridors and down several rickety staircases until he had lost all sense of direction completely.

When they were some distance underground, Harry thought, the furnishings began to get shabbier. The carpet had disappeared, and the floors were now simply uncovered cement. The walls, too, were no longer furnished—the entire area reminded Harry greatly of the dungeons under Hogwarts. A suspicious fear began to edge its way into his thoughts as he followed Lucius Malfoy farther and farther away from the purple-carpeted bedroom.

They walked so long that Harry became semi-numb, no longer noticing the changes in décor around him. He hardly noticed when Malfoy drew his wand and pushed Harry roughly backwards, muttering an incantation as he did so.

"Everate!" he said finally, and the door swung slowly open.

"In here," Malfoy said nastily. "Perhaps this will suit you better, Potter—Anti-Apparition spells, heavy locking protections, and more that a simple second-year student couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. All in all, I think it will keep you…safe."

He pushed Harry inside the room—a small stone dungeon with wire racks full of old, cracked glass bottles lining the walls.

Harry clutched protectively at the lump inside his cloak, hoping Mr. Malfoy wouldn’t notice it. If there would be a chance in the next passage of time to slip away, it would be through the power of the Cloak Danady had left behind…

Danady. Harry’s mind wandered numbly back to the picture of Danady’s limp, lifeless form—he died to protect me, he thought dispassionately. I should feel sad—I should cry—I should curse Malfoy—

But he did none of these things; only followed Lucius Malfoy into the stone dungeon. He stood silently in the middle of the room until his captor had left with a malevolent chuckle and more biting words, and then had sat slowly down where he stood. The only light in the large room was from a single, sputtering candle that Malfoy had placed there before he departed.

Isabel—Mr. Danady—they’re both gone now, he thought numbly. It’s because of me—if I hadn’t yelled—

It would have happened anyway, said a malicious voice in the back of his mind. You didn’t cause any of it…none…

But if I hadn’t yelled, Harry thought dully, Mr. Malfoy wouldn’t’ve heard—they would’ve escaped in time—they only stayed to explain about Voldemort’s pet monster.

Ah, persisted the voice, but what about the listening-charm Malfoy placed on your room?

They never told me what they were doing, or where they were going, Harry thought angrily. Malfoy wouldn’t’ve known till it was too late, and they were safe.

You can never be too sure of that, said the voice spitefully. I’d watch your back from now on if I were you….

"Oh, just leave me alone," said Harry aloud, and pulled his cloak over his face.

He sat like this for a long time, or so it seemed, although he could not be sure whether it was hours or minutes that had passed by. Visions of gargantuan snakes with hypnotic, bulbous eyes flitted through his mind, and he saw Danady fall to the ground over and over. Then, too, pictures of Ron and Hermione cornered by the Basilisk haunted him, until he was surrounded by horrible images. Quickly he pulled the cloak from his face, only to be rewarded with the sight of the cold, disheartening dungeon room.

For the first time, he noticed a moldering cot in the farthest corner of the room, overhung with spiderwebs housing the largest, most evil-looking spiders Harry had ever seen. Still, it was a bed—better than cold stone floor—and so he brushed the spiders to the floor and climbed onto the cot.

Immediately he fell asleep, although his dreams were quite as dark as his waking moments. Visions of the madness at Hogwarts filled them, growing each more terrifying.

Finally he woke. It was dark; the candle had died completely. Harry groped for his wand, but it was not there—all that met his touch was the fluid Invisibility Cloak. He pulled it out from where it still stayed, under his cloak. It shone faintly silver in the darkness, and impulsively he put in on.

He lay slowly back down again, brushing a fat spider from the rotting pillow. The feel of the Invisibility cloak enveloping him was strangely comforting, as though he was not alone but with an old friend. Still wearing the Cloak he drifted off once more, this time to a deep and dreamless sleep.

"I think I’d better do the actual stealing," said Hermione matter-of-factly the next morning over breakfast. "You’ll be expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got a clean record. All you need to do is to cause enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so."

Ron gave her a feeble grin. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.

That afternoon Ron entered the large Potions dungeon with a deep feeling of foreboding. He slid into a desk next to Hermione, who was looking nervous but determined.

"Remember, don’t do it till I give the signal. If you do it before, the Firework will be wasted, so don’t do it before the signal. Don’t forget, you can’t do it before the—,"

"I know, Hermione, I know!" Ron hissed. He turned to face the front of the dungeon, where Snape was lecturing them on the magical properties of the Swelling Solution.

"Please get out your ingredients," he said silkily after a few moments’ discussion. "Prepare the Swelling Solution according the recipe on page seven hundred ninety-three. You have exactly forty-five minutes."

A few minutes later, each student was hurriedly mixing and slicing. Snape wandered among them like a large, menacing bat, pausing to sneer at the Gryffindor’s potions. Ron waited nervously for Hermione’s signal, which came while Snape’s back was turned as he criticized Neville’s watery potion.

Ron ducked swiftly behind his cauldron, and pulled out a brilliantly green Filibuster’s Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks. Prodding it with his wand, he threw it across the dungeon and into Goyle’s cauldron just as Snape turned around.

Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate. Through the confusion, Ron saw Hermione slip quietly back into the dungeon, the front of her robes bulging slightly.

"Silence! SILENCE!" Snape roared. "Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draft."

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote, Snape swept over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.

"If I ever find out who did this," Snape whispered, "I shall make sure that that person is expelled."

"He knew it was me," said Ron after class.

"Of course not, how could he?" asked Hermione, tucking the packets of potion ingredients into her bag. "You did splendidly, Ron, I got everything."

"You won’t say that if I get expelled," Ron muttered.

Hermione gave him a scathing look and sped up slightly. Ron hurried passed her and turned around, facing her. "Let me by," she said irritably, but he didn’t move.

"Listen, Hermione," he said firmly, "If we’re going to work together on this, we’ve got to stop bickering. So…let’s stop."

"Fine," said Hermione, still a bit ruffled. Ron reddened slightly and turned back around, only to bump into Hagrid, who was holding a dead rooster in one of his large, gloved hands.

"All righ’, Ron? Hermione?" he asked.

"Fine. What’re you doing, Hagrid?" Hermione asked.

Hagrid held up the limp rooster. "Second one killed this term," he explained. "It’s either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear. I need the Headmaster’s protection ter put a charm around the hen coop."

"Hagrid!" a voice called from behind him. Professor McGonagall hurried into view. "Dumbledore would like a word, Hagrid—,"

"Good, that’s what I’ve come for," Hagrid said. "See you two later, then!"

He followed Professor McGonagall down the halls. Ron shrugged, and continued down the corridor with Hermione.

"Er, how did your Swelling Solution go, Ron?" Hermione asked awkwardly.

"Horrible," he said snappily. "I was waiting for you, remember?"

"Still, you should at least have tried," Hermione said severely. "It would help if you concentrated in class a little more, you know."

Ron whirled angrily on her. "You’re just so busy concentrating in class you don’t have time to worry about Harry. You haven’t said a thing about him for weeks!"

"That’s not true!" Hermione said, reddening. "I miss Harry a lot—but Ron, there’s nothing we can do—there are trained wizards searching for him now—I’m just trying to concentrate on the more present danger!"

"Yeah, well, Harry missing is just as present!" Ron spun around and ran down the corridor, not caring who he bumped into. He stamped up a flight of stairs, not sure where he was going, and was running along the corridor when he tripped over something large and solid lying in the hall and sprawled face-first onto the floor.

He turned to see what he had fallen over and felt as though his stomach had just dissolved. In the faint light from the window high above, he could see the outline of a pale grey statue-like figure, a boy Ron did not recognize. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sign Ron had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. He was no longer pearly-white and translucent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, sick inches off the floor. His head was half off and he wore an expression of shock.

"Ron! Ron! Ron, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—,"

Hermione ran puffing up the stairs, and stopped abruptly as she sighted Ron and the two immobile figures. "Nearly Headless Nick?" she said finally, very faintly.

Before Ron could move or speak, a door right next to him opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

"Why, it’s Granger and Weasley!" he cackled, knocking Hermione’s hat off as he bounced past. "What’re they up to? What’re they lurking—,"

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Nearly Headless Nick and the strange boy. He flipped right-way-up, filling his lungs with air, and before Hermione or Ron could stop him, screamed, "ATTACK! ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATAAAAACK!"

Crash—crash—crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that the strange boy was in danger of being squashed and people kept standing in Nick. Ron and Hermione found themselves pinned against the wall as teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her class. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into his or her classes.

Peeves was bobbing overhead gleefully, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. "Oh, you’re in trouble now," he said happily to Ron and Hermione. Suddenly he broke into song—

"That’s enough, Peeves!" barked Professor McGonagall. Peeves zoomed away backwards, his tongue out at Hermione and Ron.

Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department carried the strange boy up to the hospital wing, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to a fifth-year student with instructions to waft Nick up the stairs. This the girl did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left Hermione, Ron, and Professor McGonagall alone together.

"Granger, Weasley, come with me," she said curtly.

"Professor, we didn’t—,"

"I swear we didn’t do anything, Professor—,"

"This is out of my hands," Professor McGonagall said crisply.

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle. "Lemon drop!" she said. This was evidently a password, for the gargoyle sprang to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. Even full of dread as they were for what was coming, Hermione and Ron could not fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As they stepped onto it, the wall thudded closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Ron and Hermione saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

They knew now where they were being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.

Harry woke several hours later, feeling slightly refreshed. The dungeon was still completely dark, and Harry could not tell if it was night or day—not that it mattered, deep underground as he was. Absentmindedly he shooed a spider from his foot, and realized with a jolt that he was still wearing the Invisibility Cloak—he could not see his hand at all.

Slowly, he pulled it off. The fluid cloth flowed around his hands like water, never quite still. In the darkness is glowed silver, and the light emanating from it comforted him.

Without letting go of the Cloak, he stood carefully. After a moment he took a cautious step forward, his hand outstretched.

After a few more steps, his hand touched cold stone. Feeling around a bit, he felt one of the wire racks and the glass jars therein, and wondered briefly what was in them.

He hesitated for a moment, and then draped the Cloak around his shoulders. Reaching out with his other hand to touch the wall, he slowly felt his way along to the corner. He put his hand down, waving it about in the air, to see if the table with the candle was there—but his hand touched only empty space.

He turned and inched his way along the next wall. The table—with the candle still on it—was in the second corner, and (thought he could not say why) he picked the candle up. Now to get back to the cot.

Looping his pinky finger around the narrow part of the candleholder, he used both hands once more to feel his way along the wall. Suddenly he touched something large and swollen with his right hand—and felt a sharp pain. He cried out and jerked his hand away, knocking into one of the wire racks as he did so. The entire rack tore loose from the wall—I guess it wasn’t fastened very tightly, Harry thought distractedly—and went crashing to the ground, shattering several jars in the process. One jar flared brilliant orange as it hit the ground, and didn’t go out—with wonder, Harry realized that whatever had been in the jar had ignited the candle. Carefully, using the flickering light to see, he scooped the thick orange cream back into its half-broken jar with a fragment of glass. If it would start a candle-fire, it could be useful.

Another jar had broken very little. What little content was spilled glowed faintly purple, and Harry touched it experimentally with his right hand. It stung fiercely, but when he drew his hand back the swelling from the spider-bite had gone. In fact, he noticed as he examined the hand closer, there was not even a scar to mark the place.

For the first time he began to seriously consider the contents of the glass jars around him. If any others had properties like the two he held now, it would be more than worthwhile to put them to use. What jars were not cracked or broken, he now saw, had green or blue or yellow salves, creams, and potions bottled tightly inside—any number of which could help him considerably, if he could find what they were used for.

As the idea dawned, a cautionary thought wormed its way into the corner of his mind. Are you sure, it said, that Malfoy and Voldemort don’t know what’s in here?

"They couldn’t," he said aloud. "Or could they?"

It is Malfoy’s house, the thought pointed out. And he did specifically choose this room to lock you in. Could all this be some sort of trap?

"No," Harry said firmly. The sound of his voice echoed hollowly in the near-empty stone room.

Quickly, before the thought could protest again, he gathered up his two jars and his candle and went back to the cot. He shooed several spiders off of it—marveling anew at the smooth skin on his right hand—and sat down, carefully placing the candle by his feet on the stone floor.

He wished, suddenly, for Malfoy’s sphere of light. The candle seemed feeble in the stifling darkness of the dungeon, little comfort. Plus, it was short to begin with, and growing visibly shorter each moment it burned.

Hastily he blew the candle out. I’ll use it when I really need it, he thought. Right now I guess I can last in the darkness.

Sighing, he lay back on the cot. The discovery of the jars hadn’t helped in the grand scheme of things—it didn’t change the fact that he was locked in a dungeon in the Malfoy manor, alone, friendless, and exceedingly hungry.

As if he his thoughts had been read, a tray appeared at his feet. It contained the usual dry bread and a strange, greyish pudding-like substance that, had he not been ravenous, he would have left completely alone.

It was gone quickly, and left his still quite hungry. The moment he put down the fork for the last time, the tray disappeared with a faint pop, and Harry had the eerie sense that his every move was being watched and his every thought monitored.

"Hello?" he asked uncertainly, but nothing happened.

After a few minutes, he lay back down, suddenly tired once more, and fell back to sleep.

They stepped off the staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Hermione and Ron to wait and left them there, alone.

Hermione looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers’ offices she had visited so far this year, Dumbledore’s was by far most interesting. If she hadn’t been scared out of her wits that she would be thrown out of school, she would have been very pleased to look around it.

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat-- the Sorting Hat.

Suddenly a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.

They weren’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Hermione stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Hermione thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as she watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.

Hermione was just thinking that all they needed was for Dumbledore’s bird to die while they were alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.

Ron yelled in shock behind her. Hermione backed slowly away from the burning bird, a look of blank shock on her face.

The bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball—it gave one loud shriek and the next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.

"Professor," Ron gasped, "Your bird—we couldn’t—,"

"It just caught fire, Professor," Hermione broke in faintly. To their astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.

"It’s about time, too," he said. "He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on."

He chuckled at the stunned look on their faces. "Fawkes is a phoenix," he explained. "Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him now…"

Hermione and Ron looked in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.

"It’s a shame you two had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. "He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Hermione had forgotten what they were there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Ron and Hermione with his penetrating, light-blue stare.

Before Dumbledroe could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.

"It wasn’ them, Professor Dumbledore!" said Hagrid urgently. "I was talkin’ ter them seconds before that kid was found, they never had time, sir—,"

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went rating on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.

"It cant’t’ve bin them, I’ll swear in front o’ the Ministry o’ Magic if I have to—,"

"Hagrid, I—,"

"—Yeh’ve got the wrong people, sir, I know Hermione and Ron never—,"

"HAGRID!" said Dumbledore loudly. "I do not think that Ron and Hermione attacked those people."

"Oh," said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. "Right. I’ll wait outside, then, Headmaster, sir."

And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

"You don’t think it was us, Professor?" Ron asked hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.

"No, I don’t," said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. "But I still want to talk to you."

Hermione waited nervously while Dumbledore considered them, the tips of his long fingers together. "I must ask you two," he said slowly, "Whether there is anything you’d like to tell me," he said gently. "Anything at all."

Hermione’s thoughts strayed to the theft that morning, and the cauldronful of lacewing flies simmering slowly in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom (for this, they had decided, was by far the safest place to hide the potion). "No," she said softly.

Ron thought of the leather-bound photo album hidden under his bed, and felt the sharp pain that came with thoughts of Harry. He thought, too, of the dismal day in Diagon Alley—the trip back to Hogwarts, so grim and silent—and then he remembered Caroline and Nick and the strange boy, and the horror roaming the schools, and anger bubbled up inside him. "No," he said.

Dumbledore gave them both a searching look, but did not press them further. He stood abruptly. "You may return to your classes," he said brusquely. "Thank you."

The light flickered madly, revealing several more jars of the orange fire-starter mixture.

That’s odd, he thought. I don’t think that was there before.

With the thought came a fleeting uneasiness, but he ignored it and set the candle down. Carefully he scooped all four jars of orange fire-cream into his arms and carried them to the table, which he had scooted towards the cot. There were already several groups of jars on it—a few more of the purple salve that had healed his spider-bite, something pearly-white and very nearly solid that had relieved him of a headache when rubbed on his middle finger, and several more unidentified jars that he would test later.

Suddenly the candle sputtered and went out. Harry stood stock-still in the middle of the dungeon, his arms full of fire-starter cream. Carefully he inched forward until he bumped up against the table, and he set the jars down slowly. Then he reached into the only open jar, one half-full of fire-starter cream, and scooped out some of the thick cream—he had learned that while it would ignite the candle wick, it only felt comfortingly warm on his fingers—and smeared it over the candle.

Nothing happened.

Panic edged into his thoughts. The candle had become his life over the past two days—without it he would surely go crazy, for the cold, harsh dark was frightening nearly to the point of insanity. He had never been afraid of the dark before—eleven years sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs had accustomed him to it—but this dark was different; hostile, somehow, and listening. He felt much safer in the candlelight, and had even left it burning several times while he slept, like a small child.

He wiped the cream off his hands, using the corner of his robes as a towel. The topmost corner of the robe burst into flame, which he quickly stifled. Obviously, while flesh was not affected by the fire-cream, cloth was.

Using his hands to feel around the stone floor in the dark, he found the candle in its holder and picked it up. Even though he held it at eye-level nothing could be seen—the dark was too intense to show even a darker shadow. He felt around the holder until his hand came in contact with a very small puddle of warm wax—the candle, he thought in dismay. It had been short to begin with, and the past two days’ nearly constant use had burned it down to this—a small puddle of wax, too small to keep even a flicker alive for long.

Panic fought into his thoughts again. The candle was permanently gone; he would live in darkness now until Lucius Malfoy decided to relieve him.

The double attack on Nearly Headless Nick and the mystery boy turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? People asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats aboard the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.

"At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left," Ron told Hermione. "Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it’s going to be."

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy did, had signed up to stay over the holidays too. But both Hermione and Ron were glad that most people were leaving; they were tired of people skirting around them in the corridors, as though one or both would sprout fangs or spit poison.

Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Ron and Hermione down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for the Heirs of Slytherin, seriously evil wizards coming through…"

Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. "It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly.

"Oh, get out of the way, Perce," said Fred. "Ron’s in a hurry."

"Yeah, they’re both off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with their fanged servant," said George, chortling.

Ginny didn’t find it amusing either. "Oh, don’t," she wailed every time Fred asked Hermione loudly who she was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Ron off with a large clove of garlic.

Their antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, two; he looked increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.

"It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s him," said Ron knowingly. "You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the credit for his dirty work."

"Not for long," replied Hermione in a satisfied tone. "The Polyjuice Potion’ll be ready in a week. We’ll be getting the truth out of him any day now."

They were on the way to the Common Room, well after the last class of the day. They had worked on the potion for several minutes in Myrtle’s bathroom, and Hermione was quite satisfied. "Now all we need is a bit of the people we’ll be changing in to," she mused as they walked along. "You’d better get Crabbe or Goyle," she said to Ron. "I’ll try to corner Pansy Parkinson, she’s staying home."

"Right," Ron said gloomily. "Y’know, Hermione, do we really have to have a bit of them?" he shuddered. "I’m not drinking anything with Crabbe’s toenails in it."

"You won’t have to," Hermione said briskly. "Just get a bit of hair, you won’t even know it’s in the cup."

"I wouldn’t bet on that," Ron muttered. Hermione gave him a scathing glance, but before she could say anything the sound of voices drifted out of an empty classroom just a little way down the hall.

"Minerva," said a voice—Hermione was pretty sure it was Dumbledore’s—"Do you realize who he is?"

Ron came up to stand next to her, not noticing the voices. "Really, Hermione," he said, "Do I have to drink the ha—,"

"Sssh!" Hermione cut him off, and pointed up the hall.

"No, Albus, I can’t say I do," came McGonagall’s voice, sounding faintly annoyed. "What does it matter? Each student means as much as another. The part I can’t figure out is how this child was attacked, when he is from Slytherin and clearly pure-blood."

"Minerva," said Dumbledore sharply, "That boy is Christof Malfoy."

"Surely you don’t mean Isabel Garcia’s son?" McGonagall asked faintly.

"I do," Dumbledore replied grimly.

"But Albus—how can it be—the only logical explanation would be—oh, surely they were not…?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Dumbledore said with an effort, "Yes, Minerva. Christof’s attack can mean but one thing—Arrlimon and Isabel have been discovered and are now, at this moment, undergoing horrific torture—or they are dead. Either way, Harry is no longer safe."

"Harry? You don’t mean Harry Potter?" McGonagall asked sharply.

"I do," said Dumbledore. Ron’s jaw dropped and he looked at Hermione questioningly. "Did you—," he asked faintly. Hermione shook her head and put a finger to her lips.

"Yes, Minerva, I do mean Harry Potter," said Dumbledore heavily.

"But—the Floo accident—what—please explain yourself, Albus!"

"I cannot explain all that I will later here. But let me tell you this: Harry is being held captive by Lord Voldemort, in a place so protected and so well guarded that his only hope of rescue was Arrlimon Malfoy. I trust that you know about the Malfoy’s mission?"

"Of course. Go on, Albus," said McGonagall softly.

"Well, earlier this year Arrlimon came to me in secret and told me about Harry’s imprisonment in this well-guarded sanctuary. He offered to rescue him, and I gave him the means to do so—but apparently this plan has backfired. Harry is no longer safe with two trustworthy guardians; he may even be dead for all I know."

"Oh," said McGonagall faintly. "And Christof Malfoy would have been attacked because of his parent’s disgrace?"

"I suppose so," said Dumbledore musingly. "Although I do not know so. It could be that the Dark Lord wanted Christof for an entirely different reason—we may never know, if these horrific deeds continue."

Hermione turned to Ron, her face ashen. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "Harry could be dead, and this Christof Malfoy—whoever he is—is someone important. Oh, dear," she said, louder. "Let’s go back to Gryffindor Common Room. We can talk this over privately."

A blinding flash of white-hot light woke Harry the next morning (or rather, what felt like morning), leaving him seeing white spots for several minutes. He wondered what could have caused the explosion, and groped towards the candle—but then he remembered the day before, and the death of the small candle.

To his surprise, however, a tall, waxy shape met his fingers. He stared at it through the darkness, shocked. Another candle? he thought unbelievingly. But—it burned out—

Take advantage of what you have, Harry, said a comforting voice in his mind. No great harm can come out of a single candle, can it?

Suddenly he remembered the table full of mysterious ointments, ointments that had replenished themselves overnight. Something was certainly happening here, something that made him feel slightly uneasy. There’s nothing to worry about, the voice said again soothingly. Nothing.

Nothing to worry about, he repeated dutifully. Nothing at all.

Nothing to worry about…nothing…the voice repeated, over and over again. And then, You’re in the house of a wizard. A very powerful wizard, yes, very powerful. Nothing to worry about. Nothing.

Harry shook his head as if to clear the strange voice from it. He lay back and stared at a large black widow spider crawling in a circle on the ceiling directly above him, while subconscious thoughts ran through his mind without ceasing.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing. Safe. Nothing to worry about. The spider was very interesting—the most interesting thing Harry had seen in several days. He kept watching it. Nothing to worry about, his mind droned. In the hands of a very powerful wizard…powerful, yes. Safe. Powerful…powerful wizard—Harry was becoming more and more sleepy, it seemed as if he had not slept in several days—powerful…very powerful…wizard, very powerful wizard…powerful, power.

"That’s right," Harry murmured sleepily. "Power is all that matters."

A warning light blinked in one corner of his mind, but he was far too tired to care. He pulled the rotting blanket up to his chin, allowing the chant in his mind to lull him to sleep.

Power. Power is all that matters. And finally, You could be powerful too.

"Me too," he whispered, and then fell asleep.

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Ron, the only one left in his dormitory, was woken very early by Hermione, who burst in, fully dressed and carrying a large, bulky present under one arm.

"Wake up," she said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window.

"Hermione, you’re not supposed to be in here," said Ron sleepily, shielding his eyes against the light.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," said Hermione, throwing him his present. "I’ve been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It’s ready."

He sat up, suddenly wide-awake. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Hermione, shifting Scabbers the rat so that she could sit down on the end of Ron’s four-poster. "If we’re going to do it, I say it should be tonight."

No one, not even someone dreading taking the Polyjuice Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. Percy, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched his prefect badge so that it now read "Pinhead" kept asking them all what they were sniggering at.

Ron had barely finished his third helping of Christmas pudding when Hermione ushered him out of the hall to finalize their plans for the evening.

"We still need a bit of the people we’re changing into," said Hermione matter-of-factly, as though she were sending him to the supermarket for laundry detergent. "And obviously," she continued, "It’ll be best if you can get something of Crabbe or Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s best friends, he’ll tell them anything. And we also need to make sure that the real Goyle, and the real Pansy Parkinson, can’t burst in on us while we’re interrogating him.

"I’ve got it all worked out," she went on smoothly, ignoring Ron’s stupefied faces. She held up a plump chocolate cake. "I’ve filled this with a simple Sleeping Draught," she said. "Leave it somewhere Goyle can find it—he’s the last one in there, Crabbe left with Malfoy. I already have a hair from Pansy Parkinson—anyway, she has detention this afternoon. But I don’t think anyone knows that but me—I know it only because I heard Professor McGonagall telling her when to come. So it all works out find. Just let Goyle find the cake, pull out a few hairs, and hide him in the broom closet."

"A bro—Hermione, have you any idea how much trouble this will cause if we’re discovered?" Ron asked incredulously. "It could go really wrong!"

But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike the one Professor McGonagall sometimes had.

"Well, if you’re going to chicken out at the last minute, that’s fine with me," she said hotly. "The potion will be useless without Goyle’s hair."

"Oh, all right, all right," said Ron, but his stomach gave an uneasy twist. Who had ever heard of a plan where so many things could go wrong?

To Ron’s utter amazement, stage one of the operation went just as smoothly as Hermione had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance hall, waiting for Goyle to emerge—he had remained as the last person in the hall, certainly enjoying the feast to its fullest. Hermione had perched the chocolate cake on a small table beside the broom closet. When they spotted Goyle coming out of the Great Hall, Hermione and Ron hid quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door.

"How thick can you get?" Ron whispered ecstatically as Crabbe gleefully grabbed the cake. Grinning stupidly, he stuffed it whole into his large mouth. For a moment, he chewed greedily, a look of triumph on his face. Then, without the smallest change of expression, he keeled over backward onto the floor.

Once Goyle was safely stowed in the broom closet among the buckets and mops—he fervently hoped that Filch would not be needing any cleaning supplies in the next sixty minutes—he yanked out a couple of the bristles that covered Goyle’s forehead. They also stole his shoes, because his own were far smaller than Goyle’s large feet. Then, still stunned at what they had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

They could hardly see for the thick black smoke issuing from the stall in which Hermione had placed the cauldron. Pulling their robes over their faces they entered. Ron noticed immediately the two glass tumblers standing ready on the toilet seat.

"Er, Hermione…" Ron began. "Uh, have you thought about how we’re going to fit our clothes? Goyle’s way bigger, and Pansy Parkinson isn’t exactly your twin."

Hermione produced robes from behind the tumblers. "Got them," she said in a satisfied voice.

They stared into the small cauldron. Close up, the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggishly.

"I’m sure I’ve done everything right," said Hermione, nervously rereading the splotched pages of Moste Potente Potions, which had been propped on the floor, against the toilet. "It looks like the book says it should…now remember, once we’ve drunk it, we’ve exactly an hour before we change back into ourselves."

"Now what?" Ron whispered.

"We separate it into two glasses and add the hairs," Hermione said, a bit of a quaver in her voice. "Ready?"

Ron nodded. Hermione ladled large dollops of the muddy potion into each of the glasses. Then, her hand trembling, she shook Pansy Parkinson’s hair out of the small glass vial she’d been keeping it in and let it drop into the first glass.

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow.

"Urgh—essence of Pansy Parkinson," said Ron, eyeing it with loathing. "Bet it tastes disgusting."

"Add yours, then," said Hermione.

Ron dropped Goyle’s hair into the second glass. It, too, hissed and frothed, turning the khaki color of a booger.

"Hang on," said Hermione as Ron reached for his glass. "We’d better not drink both in here. Goyle won’t fit, and Pansy Parkinson’s no pixie."

"Good thinking," said Ron, unlocking the door. "We’ll take separate stalls."

Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion, Ron slipped into the middle stall.

"Ready?" he called.

"Ready," can Hermione’s voice.

"One—two—three—,"

Pinching his nose, Ron drank the potion down in two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage.

Immediately, his insides started writhing as though he’d just swallowed live snakes—doubled up, he wondered whether he was going to be sick—then a burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the very ends of his fingers and toes, bringing him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the skin al over his body bubbled like hot wax—and before his eyes, his hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the knuckles were bulging like bolts—his shoulders stretched painfully and a prickling sensation on his forehead told him that hair was creeping down toward his eyebrows—his robes ripped as his chest expanded like a barrel bursting its hoops—his feet were agony in shoes four sizes too small—

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Ron lay facedown on the stone-cold floor, listening to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which were hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare ones, and laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes. He reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead. He called, "Are you okay?" Goyle’s low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.

"Yeah," said Hermione in a strange voice from the next stall over.

Ron left his stall and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Goyle stood there, looking bewildered and staring back. Ron scratched his nose. So did Goyle.

Behind him the other door opened and Hermione came out.

"This is unbelievable," said Ron. "Unbelievable."

Stand up, a voice commanded from somewhere inside his head. Without meaning to, he rose smoothly from the bed. The sense of calm happiness did not go away.

Walk forward, the voice said. Suddenly Harry realized that the voice was speaking aloud, resonating through the stone room.

Stop, commanded the voice. This time it bore a hint of a cold smile.

Walk out of this room, the voice commanded after a moment.

Harry walked forward obediently, right into the large, stone door.

Leave the room, the voice commanded more insistently.

"Why?" thought a part of Harry suddenly. "Why should I leave the room?" he did not realize that he’d said it aloud until there came a sound of annoyance from the commanding voice.

Leave the room, it repeated suddenly. Leave the room!

"What if I don’t want to?" Harry asked. "What if I like it here?"

Leave the room, said the voice a third time, with a bite of impatience.

"No," he thought stubbornly. "I won’t."

You will! the voice roared.

Harry found himself crashing into the door once more, this time with much more force. It seemed that he had both left the room and stayed in it at the last, the voice being too powerful to completely overwhelm.

Suddenly the calm feeling left him abruptly. He was huddled on the ground beside the door, rubbing his forehead where it had hit the door. His hand came away sticky.

What was that? Harry thought. It seemed to have started before he slept. He realized with a jolt he could not remember what had happened to make him fall asleep, or why it had given him such a vague sense of worry.

"Don’t swing your arms like that," Hermione muttered to Ron.

"Eh?"

"Crabbe holds them sort of stiff. You’re swinging them around like a gorilla."

"Thanks a lot, Hermione," Ron said. "A gorilla?"

"Well—,"

"Whatever, is this right?" Ron cut her off.

"Yeah, that’s better…"

They went in silence down the marble staircase. All they needed now was a Slytherin to follow to the Slytherin common room, but there was nobody around.

"Any ideas?" muttered Ron.

"The Slytherins always come up to breakfast over there," said Hermione, nodding at the entrance to the dungeons. No sooner had she spoken the words than none other than Draco Malfoy emerged from the entrance.

"There you are," he drawled, looking at them. "Have you been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time, Goyle? I want to show you both something really funny."

Hermione did her best to adopt a simpering smile as they followed him down several flights of stairs and through several labyrinthine passages until they came to a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.

"What’s the new password again?" he said to Hermione.

"Er—," said Hermione.

"Oh yeah—pure blood! Said Malfoy, not listening, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Malfoy marched through it, and Ron and Hermione followed him.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high-backed chairs.

"Wait here," said Malfoy to Hermione and Ron, motioning them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire. "I’ll go and get it—my father’s just sent it to me—"

Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them, Hermione and Ron sat down, doing their best to look at home.

Malfoy came back a minute later, holding a newspaper clipping. Pulling a chair up beside Hermione, he thrust it under her nose.

"That’ll give you a laugh," he said.

Ron saw Hermione’s eyes widen in shock. She read the clipping quickly, gave a forced giggle, and passed it to Ron.

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it read:

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr. Weasley’s resignation.

"Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute," Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. "He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately."

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told reporters to clear off or she’d set the family ghoul on them.

"Well?" said Malfoy impatiently as Ron handed the clipping back to him. "Don’t you think it’s funny?"

"Ha, ha," said Ron bleakly.

"Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much that he should snap his wand in half and go join them," said Malfoy scornfully. "You’d never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave."

"Of course," said Hermione in a strangled sort of voice. Malfoy gave her an odd look, but didn’t say anything more.

Ron’s face contorted with fury.

"What’s up with you, Goyle?" Malfoy snapped.

"Stomachache," Ron grunted.

"Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me," said Malfoy, snickering. "You know, I’m surprised that the Daily Prophet hasn’t reported all these attacks yet," he went on thoughtfully. "I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let slime like them in."

He was quiet for a moment. Hermione, glancing at her watch, said quickly, "Oh, Draco, do you know who it is?"

"I’ve told you before, I don’t have any idea," snapped Malfoy.

"You must have some idea who’s behind it all," grunted Ron, or rather Goyle.

"How many times to I have to tell you I don’t know? Father won’t even tell me about the last time that the Chamber was opened, either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing—last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time—I hope it’s Granger."

"Do you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?" said Hermione, pretending fawning interest.

"Oh, yeah, whoever it was was expelled," said Malfoy. "They’re probably still in Azkaban."

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, "Father says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?"

"Oh no!" Hermione cried, concern in her voice. Ron had to admit, she was a good actress.

"Yeah…" said Malfoy. "Luckily, they didn’t fin much. Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing room floor—,"

"Ho!" said Ron.

Malfoy looked at him. So did Hermione. Ron blushed. Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also slowly lengthening—their hour was up, Ron was turning back into himself, and from the look of horror he was suddenly given Hermione, he must be, too."

"Medicine for my stomach," Ron grunted.

"Er…splitting headache," Hermione said nervously. Without further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall, and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Ron could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle’s boatlike shoes and had to hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a muffled pounding coming from the closet where they’d locked Goyle. Leaving their shoes outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

"Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time," Ron panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. "I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room."

Hermione glanced in the cracked mirror. She was completely back to normal.

A stinging sensation in his right hand woke Harry. He opened his eyes only to see by the light of the candle—which he now kept burning incessantly, as there was never a shortage of the tall green candles—the large spider sitting on it.

Sitting up, he brushed the spider off and reached for the jar of healing salve. He rubbed it all over his right hand and the pain cooled instantly.

It was several days since the strange experience with the unknown curse. Harry had become wary of every noise, every slight movement in the dungeon. He wished that he had his wand with him, though for nothing more than sheer comfort.

What could I do, anyway, he thought ruefully, charm my way out of the dungeon?

He hadn’t seen his wand for several weeks, though he could not place exactly when it had been taken from him. Sometime after his attempt at escape, he supposed.

A spider crawled over his foot. He kicked it off before it could bite him and continued to sit on the bed with his back to the wall, aimlessly staring at the heavy, locked door of the dungeon.

I wonder what’s happening at school, Harry thought suddenly. With the thought came a chill—now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The heavy dungeon door seemed to blur before his eyes, and he saw people running…teachers talking worriedly in soft whispers…students being pursued by a fanged beast, half-hidden in gloomy shadow. Harry shuddered. He had been haunted by the thoughts of mayhem at Hogwarts ever since Danady had been killed. Nothing seemed to help; ever-present in his mind were the pictures of Ron and Hermione cornered by the monster—again, and again, and again the scene played itself over in his mind—

Harry shook uncontrollably. It was too horrible to think about—so he didn’t. He thought instead about the wealth of detail on the spider crawling up the wall beside him.

He wondered what the spiders did all day, alone in the dark of this room. Did they simply crawl around, waiting for an unsuspecting, blind bug to land in their nets? Did they sometimes leave through means unknown to find sunlight and fresh air? Or were they trapped, as he was, for as long as the door remained shut?

The spider stopped when it was level with his nose. It stood as if glued to the stone, not moving a centimeter from where it stood. It seemed to be waiting for something…

Without warning it began to race up the wall and to the right a little. It disappeared into the shadows, and Harry sat back on the bed with a sigh. So not much would be determined by the movement of the spiders after all, he thought dismally.

It seemed as if he was in for a long stay.

"Hermione, how many rat tails do you add to a Hair-raising potion?" Ron asked despairingly. They were walking down a corridor on their way to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was staring at a large Potions textbook with a dazed look, clearly not seeing anything written on the page. Snape had given them so much homework that they were likely to be in the sixth year before they finished it all.

"Seven and three quarters," Hermione said briskly. "Really, Ron, you need to read the book, not just stare at it," said Hermione brusquely.

"Hermione, I’m try—," Ron began, but an angry outburst from the floor above cut him off.

"That’s Filch," said Hermione as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

"Do you think someone else has been—you know—,"

"Ssh!" Hermione held a finger to her lips.

Filch sounded slightly hysterical, yelling at no one in particular. "—even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to do already! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore—,"

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked.

"C’mon, Hermione," said Ron pleadingly. "Let’s get out of here before someone comes along!"

Hermione wordlessly pointed at a great flood of water, stretching over half the corridor. More water still was seeping from under the door to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle’s wails from inside the bathroom.

"Now what’s up with her?" said Ron.

"Let’s go see," said Hermione. "And then we’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower, or you’ll never get your homework done, you know."

Ron threw her an irritated glance but followed as she picked her way carefully around and through the puddle of water and into the bathroom.

Moaning Myrtle seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet, crying—if possible—louder and harder than ever before.

"Who’s that?" asked Myrtle miserably as the door closed behind them. "Someone else come to throw something at me? I mind my own business, and what can I do if someone thinks it would be funny to throw a book at me? Ten points if you can get it through Myrtle’s nose! Twenty if it flies through her forehead!" she sobbed harder and rose slowly out of the toilet.

"Why would I throw a book at you?" Hermione asked reasonably, wading across to Myrtle’s stall.

"Anyway," Ron broke it, "It can’t hurt that much, can it? I mean, you’re dead…."

"Of course," said Myrtle, sniffing. "It doesn’t matter if you throw things at Myrtle, she’s dead so she can’t feel it…."

With a loud, gurgling sob, she dived back into the toilet.

"Who threw it in, anyway?" asked Hermione.

"I don’t know," Myrtle glugged from inside the U-bend of the toilet. "But you can look at it if you want…it got washed out and landed under that sink."

Ron looked at the row of sinks againts the wall. Lying under one of them—the oldest, most broken down of them all—was a small black book that was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Ron stepped forward and picked it up.

"It’s a diary," he said, no longer interested. "Doesn’t have anything written in it, though…."

"Here, let me see," said Hermione. Ron handed it to her.

"Wow, it’s fifty years old," she said. "You’re right, though, nothing written in it…."

She turned it over and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.

"Whoever owned it must’ve been a Muggle then," she said, and opened it once more. "Wait—there is something written here—,"

T.M. Riddle was written on the first page in smudged ink.

"T.M. Riddle?" Ron asked. "Wonder who that could be?"

Hermione didn’t answer; she was deep in thought. "T.M. Riddle," she said suddenly. "I’ve heard that name before! I think he got an award for special services to the school. I was looking at the trophy case yesterday."

"Wonder what for," Ron said in a slightly bored tone. "Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Chuck it back in the toilet."

"No, not yet," said Hermione, scanning the book further. Suddenly she took out her want and prodded the cover, muttering a few words that Ron didn’t catch. Hopefully, she opened it again, but it remained blank.

"Invisible ink?" she asked musingly. Pocketing her wand, she took out a small pink eraser and began rubbing furiously at the wet pages. Nothing happened.

"Nothing’s written at all," she said finally, sounding disappointed.

"I could’ve told you that," said Ron grumpily. "Wish I knew who chucked it, though. Oh well—fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle’s head!"

"No," Hermione repeated stolidly. She slid the little book and the eraser-like object back into her robe pockets. "I’m going to keep it."

"I wish I knew why someone tried to chuck it," said Hermione. She and Ron were seated in the corner of the Common Room, with the diary on a table between them, beside Ron’s unfinished Potions homework. Both were staring at it with equally bemused expressions; both had come up with various explanations for that very question—each wilder than the last.

"Who knows, maybe somebody thought flushing it would make writing appear," said Ron disinterestedly. "C’mon, Hermione, leave it be. I’ve got to start on that Potions homework—you too, you know."

Hermione didn’t asnwer. She had an arrested look on her face and was staring, wide-eyed, at the book.

"Ron," she said suddenly, "I think I know why Riddle got the award for special services," she said excitedly. "He was at Hogwarts fifty years ago, right?"

Ron nodded, not knowing where she was going with this.

Now Hermione could hardly contain her excitement. "And what did Malfoy tell us?" she asked, her voice breaking with uncontained anticipation. Without waiting for Ron to reply, she cried "The Changer of Secrets was opened fifty years ago!"

Several people looked over at them, and Hermione blushed.

"So what’re you saying?" Ron asked quietly, when everyone had gone back to what they were doing.

"Oh, Ron, wake up," Hermione snapped. "We know the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught and expelled fifty years ago, right?"

Ron nodded, understanding dawning in his face.

"We know T.M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. What if Riddle got his award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything—where the Chamber is—what’s hiding in there—the person who’s behind the attacks—well, the Heir of Slytherin wouldn’t want that lying around, would he?"

"That’s brilliant, Hermione," said Ron sarcastically. "With just one little flaw. There’s nothing written in the diary. I’m telling you, Hermione, Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn’t be bothered writing in it." Without another word, he pulled his parchment towards him to begin on his Potions work.

Suddenly the parchment caught on the corner of the bottle of ink; a second later the open bottle tipped, spilling ink all over Ron, Hermione, all of Ron’s books, and T.M. Riddle’s diary.

Ron jumped up, overturning the small table and spilling ink all over the Common Room carpet.

"What’s the problem?" asked Percy officiously, hurrying over with his chest thrust out so that the Prefect badge was clearly visible. "What happened back here? Ron, tell me what happened! Someone go get Professor McGonagall, this mess needs to be cleaned up. Hermione, Ron, go change your robes and wash up, you’ve got ink all over you." He paused for breath. "But first tell me what happened, I’m a Prefect, I’ll need to tell Professor McGonagall."

"I was pulling my parchment toward me and it spilled the ink," Ron snapped, shaking his hands. Ink flew everywhere; Percy’s forehead became bespeckled with black.

"Stop it, Ron!" he said. "Ah, Professor McGonagall, you’re here. Sorry to bother you, but my little brother spilled his ink—,"

"I did not spill it!" Ron roared. "Professor, it tipped as I was pulling my parchment toward me—got all over my books and my homework and me, too—,"

"I told them to go change, I just thought you’d want to clean up the carpet—," Percy broke in.

"Professor, what about my books?" Ron shouted.

"QUIET!" McGonagall bellowed. "Everyone, please. This is easily fixed. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, please go change into clean robes. Take this soap with you and clean the ink off yourself—yes, Miss Weasley, it is magic soap. Percy, you could use some too. Now go!"

Ron and Hermione fled, each clutching a bar of violently green soap in one hand. Percy chased after Ron, shouting "Wait! Come back, Ron, I need to use that soap!"

Professor McGonagall drew her wand from her cloak and quickly lifted the ink from the carpet and poured it back into the bottle. By the time Ron, Hermione, and Percy had returned (which time was surprisingly short, considering Ron and Hermione’s extremely inky skin) there was no sign of where the ink had stained the carpet. Professor McGonagall was conversing with a seventh-year girl who had an open Transfiguration textbook in her lap; the girl looked extremely pleased to have the help of the Transfiguration teacher herself in completing her homework.

"Ah! Weasley, Granger, Percy," she said when they reentered the Common Room. "I’ve fixed the carpet, but your books, Weasley, are still in a sad state. I’m afraid you’ll have to take them to Professor Flitwick, he’s exceptionally good at cleaning charms. Next time be more careful with your supplies, please. Good-bye."

It was not until Charms class the next day that Hermione noticed something peculiar about Riddle’s diary. While all of Ron’s textbooks had been thoroughly drenched in ink (Professor Flitwick was indeed taking advantage of the mess to teach his students scouring charms), the diary remained as unblemished as it had when they retrieved it from Myrtle’s bathroom.

She tried to point this out to Ron, but he was watching, white-faced, as Neville Longbottom accidentally set fire to 101 Magical Herbs and Fungi in the attempt to lift the spilt ink from its pages.

"I needed that, too," he whispered. "There was a section we had to read up on for Potions…c’mon, Hermione, not now." With that, he jumped up and ran over to where Professor Flitwick was helping Neville put the fire out with spurts of icy water pouring from the tip of his wand.

Sighing, Hermione replaced the diary and turned to the ink-spattered copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 that she had been assigned to clean. "Purificalmith!" The black ink flew into the tip of her wand, and she proceeded to drain it into an inkwell sitting beside the book.

"Thanks," Ron muttered as he slid back into the seat beside her. Hermione glanced up to see Professor Flitwick busily repairing the burned book, with an ashen-faced Neville apologizing profusely to anyone who would listen. "Now how do you do this again?"

"Make the fourth syllable nice and long—Purificalmith."

"Purificalmith!" Ron tried. Nothing happened.

"Not Purificalmith, Purificalmith, Ron," Hermione scolded. Try it again.

This time Ron succeeded—but as the ink sped into the tip of his wand, he groaned. Hermione, who had turned away to clean another book, turned back with a scowl. "What now?" she asked irritably. "Ron, I’ll never get through these if you can’t learn a simple cleaning spell."

"No, Hermione—look—I did it right, I’m not sure what happened—," Ron gasped, staring at the pages before him. They had gone completely blank—apparently all the ink had been erased, not just the ink spilt the day before.

Hermione raised her hand resignedly. "Professor!" she called when Flitwick did not look up. "I’m not sure what happened, it just…"

The tiny wizard hurried over and talked Ron through the process of feeding the right inks back into the book and the wrong into the inkwell. "Honestly," Hermione muttered and turned back to her own books.

Before she could begin the spell on Terrors of the Deep by Todali Frident, however, the corner of the diary caught her eye once more. It stared up at her, still perfectly ink-free and clean.

Suddenly it dawned on her, and as soon as Professor Flitwick had turned away she pulled the diary from her bag. Opening it to the first page she quickly scribbled a few lines using a quill from her desk and the ink that she had sucked out of Ron’s book and wrote, "My name is Hermione Granger."

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in her very own ink, came words she had never written.

These words, too, faded away, but not before Hermione had started to scribble back.

"Someone tried to flush it down a toilet."

She waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply.

"What do you mean?" Hermione scrawled, blotting the page in her excitement. She was oblivious, now to the shouts of her classmates as they accidentally misperformed the cleaning charm; to the worried groans Ron gave each time he noticed something horrible happen to one of his secondhand books; to the utter mayhem that the class was wasted on her unhearing ears.

"That’s where I am now," Hermione wrote quickly. "I’m at Hogwarts. Horrible stuff’s been happening, too. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

Her heart was beating so loudly that she was sure that Riddle could hear it through the pages of the diary. Riddle’s reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier as though he were hurrying to tell all he knew."

Hermione nearly upset her ink bottle in her hurry to write back.

"It’s happening again now," she scribbled. "There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind them. Who was it last time?"

"I can show you if you like," came Riddle’s reply. "You don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him."

Hermione hesitated, quill suspended over the diary. Suddenly she realized once more that she was in Charms class with the rest of the Gryffindor second years, not alone in her dormitory. She set the quill down and pushed the cleaned books in front of her to shield her from anyone who could be watching. Ron was not beside her; she saw him at the other side of the room watching anxiously as Professor Flitwick repaired a damaged book.

Then she turned back to the diary. The last words were still there, glistening darkly on the page labeled January 1st. What did Riddle mean about taking her "inside his memory"? How could she be taken inside someone’s memory?

She glanced up uneasily at the other students. No one was paying much attention to her; they were all engrossed in their own problems. When she looked back down at the diary, fresh words had formed beneath the others.

Hermione paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Hermione saw that the little square for June 13th seemed to have turned into a miniscule television screen. Hands trembling slightly, she bent towards the desk and put her eye against the little window, and before she knew what was happening she was tilting forward; the window was widening, she felt her body leave the chair, and she was pitched headlong through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow.

She knew immediately where she was; it was not more than a few months ago she and Ron had been in this very same room. It was Dumbledore’s office—but it wasn’t Dumbledore who occupied the chair behind the desk. A thin, wizened man wearing deep navy robes, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Hermione had never seen him before.

"I’m sorry," she said shakily. "I didn’t mean to butt in—,"

The wizard did not look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly. Hermione drew nearer to his desk and stammered, "Er—I’ll just go, shall I?"

Still the wizard ignored her. He didn’t even seem to notice her presence. Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Hermione shouted, "Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll just go now."

The wizard folded the letter with a sigh, stood up, and walked to the window to draw the curtains against the deepening dark. Then he returned to his seat once more and sat, twiddling his thumbs and watching the door.

Hermione looked around the office. No phoenix—no whirring silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, fifty years ago. This unknown wizard must have been the Headmaster, not Dumbledore, and Hermione was little more than a phantom—completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago.

There was a sudden rap on the door of the office.

"Enter," said the wizard in a feeble voice.

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect badge glinted on his chest. He reminded Hermione of Harry; though he was much taller he, too, had jet-black hair.

"Ah, Riddle," said the Headmaster.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" Riddle asked. He looked nervous.

"Sit down," said Dippet. "I’ve just been reading the letter you sent me."

"Oh," said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.

"Dear boy," said Dippet kindly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?" he added.

"No," said Riddle immediately. "I’d rather spend the summer here than go back to that—to that…"

"I understand you live in a Muggle orphanage over the summer," said Dippet. "That is true?"

"Yes," said Riddle, reddening slightly. "My—my father was a Muggle."

"And both your parents are—?"

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me—Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically. "The thing is, Tom," he sighed, "special arrangements might have been made for you under different circumstances, but now…." He sighed heavily.

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" said Riddle eagerly. Hermione moved closer, anxious not to miss anything."

"Precisely," said the headmaster, sighing again. "Dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be for you to remain at the castle after term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy…you will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry is even now talking of closing the school. We are no nearer locating the source of all this unpleasantness…."

"Sir—if the person was caught—if it all stopped—," he asked quickly.

"What do you mean?" said Dippet, his voice catching. "Tom, do you know anything about these attacks?"

"No, sir," said Riddle quickly, but Hermione was sure that it was the same sort of "no" she herself had given Dumbledore a few months ago.

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed. "You may go now, Tom…."

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Hermione followed, slipping through the door before it closed.

Down the moving spiral staircase they traveled, emerging next to the stone gargoyle in the darkened corridor. Riddle stopped, biting his lip. His forehead furrowed, and Hermione could tell that he was doing some serious thinking.

Then, as though he had reached a sudden decision, he hurried off, Hermione gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn’t see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase.

"What are you doing, wandering about this late, Tom?"

"I had to see the Headmaster, Professor," said Riddle.

Hermione gasped as she looked at the wizard. It was none other than a fifty-year-younger Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the same kind of piercing stare Hermione had undergone so many times. "Well, hurry off to bed," he said. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…" he sighed heavily, bade Riddle goodnight, and strode off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Hermione in hot pursuit.

To Hermione’s disappointment, Riddle led her not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but into the very dungeon where Snape taught their Potions class. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Hermione could only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.

It felt to Hermione that they were there for at least an hour. All she could see was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue. And just when she had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started wishing she could return to the Charms class, she heard something move beyond the door.

Someone was creeping along the passage. She heard whoever it was pass the dungeon where they were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged through the door and followed, Hermione close behind.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Hermione heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.

"C’mon…gotta get yeh outta here…C’mon, now…in the box…."

There was something familiar about that voice….

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Hermione stepped out behind him. She could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it.

"Evening, Rubeus," said Riddle sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.

"What yer doin’ down here, Tom?"

Riddle stepped closer.

"It’s all over," he said. "I’m going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They’re talking about closing the school if the attacks don’t stop. I don’t think you mean to kill anyone," he said, raising his voice over the large boy’s protests. "Monsters just don’t make good pets, Rubeus. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and—,"

"It never killed no one!" said the large boy, backing against the wall. From behind him, Hermione could hear an odd rustling and clicking.

"Come on, Rubeus," said Riddle, moving closer. "The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing responsible for her death is slaughtered…."

"It wasn’t him!" roared the boy. "He wouldn’! He never!"

"Stand aside," said Riddle, drawing his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden, flaming light. The door behind the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of it came something that made Hermione let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone—

A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers—Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Hermione felt herself falling into the darkness…it was enveloping her….

"Miss Granger, Miss Granger, wake up. Enervate!"

The voices seemed to be coming from a long way off. Hermione opened her eyes slowly to the sight of many anxious faces hovering above her, among them Ron’s and Professor Flitwick’s. Their faces showed identical shock and concern. Ron was paper-white, mouthing soundlessly.

"What happened?" Hermione muttered groggily. Suddenly she remembered the diary and Riddle’s memory. "Oh," she said softly.

"What, Miss Granger?" asked Flitwick, relief flooding his voice.

"Oh—nothing, Professor," said Hermione, sitting up. "What happened? Whatever it was, I feel much better now." As she spoke, she scanned the floor next to her for the diary. It was not there—it was not on her desk either, she noticed.

"You—you fainted, Hermione," said Ron croakily. "You kind of went into this coma for a couple minutes—it was weird—,"

Hermione noticed the diary now, tucked into her schoolbag as it had been at the beginning of the lesson. "Oh," she said, relieved and not paying much attention to the concerned questions about her welfare from her classmates.

"Would you like to go up to the hospital wing, Miss Granger?" Flitwick squeaked worriedly.

"No—no, I’m fine," Hermione mumbled. "Er…when is class over?"

"Now," said Flitwick. "I advise that you go up to Gryffindor Tower, however. You don’t look well, not well at all. Would someone like to go with Miss Granger to the Tower? I’ll cover up with Minerva…."

"I’ll go!" Ron volunteered quickly.

"Very well, Mr. Weasley, you may go with Miss Granger and spend the next period in Gryffindor Tower. I advise that you rest yourself, Miss Granger, you still look a bit pale. Now hurry up—I’ve got to explain to Minerva, come on now—,"

He shooed Ron and Hermione from the classroom. Hermione walked in groggy silence, Ron beside her.

"Wow, Hermione," he said finally, "What on earth happened?"

"What?" she finally asked, after several moments.

"Er…what exactly happened in Charms today, Hermione?"

She turned to face him, the dazed look replaced by a look of great pain. "I found out who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago," she said in a hollow voice.

Ron started visibly; he had certainly not been expecting this. "You—you what?" he stammered.

"I found who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago," Hermione repeated dully. "With the diary."

Ron brushed that aside, staring at her in unbelief. "Hermione—are you sure you’re okay? What on earth d’you mean, you found out who opened the Chamber of Secrets? How could you?"

"Ron," said Hermione, "It was Hagrid. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets last time."

"WHAT?" Ron yelled, standing so suddenly that the chair in which he had been sitting tipped over. The other occupants of the Common Room turned in their direction briefly, curious expressions on their faces, but did not bother them.

"It was the diary," Hermione continued hollowly. "T.M. Riddle’s diary."

"Hermione," said Ron patiently, "Riddle’s diary is blank. Remember? Blank. Nothing written on it. Certainly nothing to convict Hagrid of opening the Chamber of Secrets."

"No, Ron," said Hermione. She seemed to have returned to the present; the hollow tone was still there, but the conviction behind the words was unmistakable. "Come here, I’ll show you."

Ron pulled his chair closer to hers. Hermione pulled the diary from her bag and opened a bottle of ink; dipping her quill in she made a mark on the first page.

"Wicked," said Ron softly as the diary sucked the ink in.

"Now watch this, Ron," said Hermione.

"This is Hermione Granger," she wrote in an unsteady hand. A moment later, the ink reformed into new words—words that Hermione had never written. Ron’s eyes widened as he read the glistening paragraph.

Hermione did not write anything else; she simply looked up at Ron and raised an eyebrow. "See?" she whispered. Without writing any more she closed the diary and tucked it once more into her schoolbag.

"Now do you believe me?" she asked.

"Yeah, but what—how did you find out about Hagrid?" Ron asked, still gaping at the black book.

Hermione quickly explained what had happened during Charms. "Riddle might have got the wrong person," said Ron after she had finished.

"How many monsters do you think this place could hold?" Hermione asked dully. "Besides, we always knew Hagrid had been expelled—and the attacks must’ve stopped after he was kicked out."

"It figures," said Ron finally. "You know, if Hagrid got wind of some monster locked up in the castle, he would try to give it some exercise…."

Hermione nodded wordlessly. After a moment she asked the knottiest question of all: "Do you think we should go ask Hagrid about it all?"

In the end, they decided they would not say anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack, and as more and more days went by without the slightest disturbance, they became hopeful that they would never need to talk to him about why he’d been expelled.

Besides that, the Mandrakes had thrown a very loud and raucous party in Greenhouse Three. This made Professor Sprout very happy. "The moment they start trying to move into each other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature," she told her class. "Then we’ll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing."

"Hermione—I don’t know who did it—I just found—," Watching fearfully, Parvati Patil pushed open the door.

The contents of Hermione’s trunk had been thrown everywhere. Her cloak lay ripped on the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled off her four-poster and the drawer had been pulled out of her bedside cabinet, the contents strewn all over her mattress.

"I don’t know who did it," Parvati whispered again. "I came in here and saw it…I’m really, really, sorry, Hermione…."

Wordlessly, Hermione walked over to the bed, treading on a few loose pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2.

With a sigh, she replacing books in her trunk. It was not until she had placed the last book (Is there Harm in Charms? By Ima Freke) in her trunk that she noticed it.

Without more than a nod to Parvati, who was still standing in the middle of the room with a deeply apologetic expression, she flew out of her dormitory and down to the Common Room, where Ron was immersed in Transfiguration homework.

"Ron, someone broke into my dormitory and stuff was all over the place and Riddle’s diary is gone," she said breathlessly.

"What?" said Ron, looking up from Mastering the Art of Transfiguration. "You mean someone stole it?"

"Yes," said Hermione in a low voice. "But why would someone steal it? And who would steal it?"

"Someone in Gryffindor," said Ron, peering suspiciously around the near-empty Common Room. "Nobody else knows our password."

"Exactly," said Hermione.

The next morning was given over to a Gryffindor Quidditch match. As Ron and Hermione prepared to leave for the field, Hermione suddenly stopped. "Wait," she said suddenly. "I’ve left my sweater in the dormitory."

"C’mon, Hermione, it’s nearly June," said Ron incredulously. "Why d’you need a sweater?"

"You’re wearing one," said Hermione pointedly. "Go on out to the field without me, I’ll be there in a minute." She spun on her heel and raced off in the direction of the Gryffindor portrait hole, leaving Ron alone in the middle of the entrance hall.

"Whatever," he muttered, and followed the stream of students outside.

He found a seat in the stadium beside Dean, Seamus, and Hagrid. Putting his hat beside him to keep clear a place for Hermione, he turned his attention to the field.

The teams—Gryffindor and Hufflepuff—walked on to the field to tumultuous applause. Ron’s stomach gave a lurch as he spotted the Gryffindor Seeker, a fifth-year boy he didn’t know. Harry’s the real Seeker, he thought bitterly.

Last year, after Professor McGonagall had witnessed him safe Neville Longbottom’s Remembrall from a fifty-foot dive, he had been placed on the Gryffindor Quidditch team—the only first year to make the team in over a century. Now his position had been replaced by Roy Salinger, a fifth-year who didn’t play half as well.

Ron’s attention was brought back to the pitch as Professor McGonagall marched to the center, an enormous purple megaphone clutched in her right hand. His heart gave a lurch.

"This match has been canceled," Professor McGonagall barked through the megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and shouts. Oliver Wood, captain of the Gryffindor team, looked devastated.

"But Professor," he shouted, "The match—the Cup—Gryffindor—,"

Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to shout into her megaphone:

"All students are to make their way back to their House Common Rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!"

Then she lowered the megaphone and began to run to the side of the stadium where the Gryffindor supporters were arranged, all sporting red and gold. Surprisingly, she was coming right toward Ron.

"Weasley, I think you’d better come with me…." She said when she reached him. Wondering how McGonagall could possibly suspect him now, Ron followed her across the pitch and into the entrance hall. She led him up the marble staircase, but to his surprise he wasn’t being taken to anyone’s office this time.

"This will be a bit of a shock," said Professor McGonagall gently as they neared the infirmary. "There has been another attack. Another double attack."

She pushed the door open slowly and she and Ron entered. Ron’s heart pounded loudly; his stomach felt as though it would never be still again. What happened? What happened? What happened? He kept asking himself.

Madam Pomfrey was bending over a fifth-year girl with long, curly hair who Ron didn’t know. And on the bed next to her was—

"Hermione!" Ron gasped.

Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.

"They were found a few corridors away from the entrance hall," said Professor McGonagall.

Ron stared at her, horror-stricken. She was wearing her sweater, he noticed, and she had a cup in one hand.

"Why did she have the cup," Ron said. It wasn’t a question; more of an excuse to say something.

"She was coming back from Gryffindor Tower, I assume," said Professor McGonagall softly. Professor Flitwick said he saw her get a drink on her way out. The water was found spilled on the floor beside them—I assume it was spilled in her surprise at whatever had crept up on her."

"Oh," said Ron, knowing he had to respond.

"I must escort you back to Gryffindor Tower," she said after a moment. "I need to address the students in any case."

"All students will return to their House Common Rooms by six o’clock in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities."

The Gryffindors packed inside the Common Room listened to McGonagall in stony silence. She rolled up the parchment from which she had been reading and said in a somewhat choked voice, "I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely that the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they know anything about them to come forward."

She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole.

Ron could not seem to get rid of the picture of Hermione, lying on the hospital bed as though carved out of stone.

"Did you hear…?" "Yes, that’s what I heard. Can you believe it?" "I knew that he was behind it all, I knew it." "Dumbledore’s sure desperate." "Wouldn’t you be?"

The murmurs and whispers greeted Ron as he entered the Great Hall the next morning. Surprisingly, they were not directed at him.

"Ron," said George, coming up to him with a strangely pained look on his face. "Did you hear what the Minister of Magic did last night?"

"What?" asked Ron uneasily, taking a slice of toast from a platter in the middle of the long table.

"Er—he arrested Hagrid last night, Ron. Took him to Azkaban."

Ron’s jaw dropped. "Serious?" he croaked.

"Yeah," said George. He sat down beside Ron and helped himself to a glass of cold orange juice.

"Why?" asked Ron, although he knew the answer.

"Some daft story about him being the Heir of Slytherin," said George, taking a large gulp of the orange juice.

Ron didn’t touch his toast. "Oh," he said dully. So it hadn’t mattered that he and Hermione’d kept their mouths shut—but of course, Dumbledore would have known it already. Somehow, though, Ron was sure that Dumbledore had not agreed to take Hagrid away. What about Dumbledore? He asked himself. It was not until George answered that he realized he’d spoken aloud.

"That’s the other part," said George. "You going to eat this?" when Ron shook his head, George slid the plate of toast over and took a large bite.

"What’s the other part?" Ron asked, unable to stop himself.

"Lucius Malfoy came with a written order for Dumbledore’s suspension. All the governors of the school’d signed it—though I bet Malfoy had to blackmail every one of `em. Anyway, Dumbledore’s gone now. McGonagall’s filling in until Dumbledore comes back…or until the governors elect a new Headmaster."

Ron paled. "But—but—," he stammered.

"But what?" asked George.

"But with Dumbledore gone, half the school’ll be attacked!" Ron said.

"Yeah, I know," said George, downing the rest of the orange juice. "Say, Ron, could you get me more juice?"

"No," Ron said waspishly, and turned away. Hagrid gone? Dumbledore gone? It was as if the Heir of Slytherin had been given free rein over the school. No one, no one, would be able to restore order if Dumbledore could not.

"It looks like they’re going to close the school," said George solemnly, slipping back into his seat with a full glass of orange juice. "If the attacks don’t stop."

"Yeah," mumbled Ron.

"Ron, what’s wrong with you this morning?" asked George, his mouth full of porridge.

Ron turned around, scowling. "My two best friends are gone. One of them’s probably dead. The school’s going to be closing, I’ll never get a chance to graduate from Hogwarts—,"

"Well neither will I," said George reasonably.

Ron scowled deeper. "All right then," he snapped, "I’ll never get a chance to be a third year at Hogwarts. The Heir of Slytherin’s taken over the school, people I know and live with are next on his list. Care to hear more?" he drew a deep breath, but George stopped him, an odd look on his face.

"Sorry for asking," George said. All ambivalence was gone from his tone. "I didn’t realize—I mean, I forgot—,"

"It’s okay," said Ron wearily. "But I’m going back to Gryffindor Tower. G’bye."

He stood up quickly and left the hall, his stomach feeling emptier than it had when he had entered. But he didn’t care; all he wanted now was to be alone. He seriously considered skipping the first class of the day to go back to sleep, but decided that was a good way to get detention fast.

Seamus Finnigan came up to get him an hour later. "We’ve had some good news," he said in a forced bright tone.

"Yeah, I heard about that good news," Ron said. "Hagrid’s been sacked and so has Dumbledore."

"No, really," Seamus said. "Professor Sprout said that the Mandrakes’d be ready for cutting next Monday. Er…that means that Hermione and those others will, you know, be back to normal."

"Sure," said Ron. He was only half-listening. Before Seamus had come up he’d been looking at the small photograph album, the one he hadn’t looked at since the start of the year. When he’d heard footsteps, he’d tucked it quickly back under the bed, but one red leather corner peeked out at him, and he was staring at it hard, trying to ignore the pricking at his eyes.

"Unfortunately, we’ve still got exams—starting next Thursday. Er…I guess your friend Hermione will be sad that she didn’t get to study up on them."

"Yeah, I guess so," said Ron dully.

"Listen, are you even paying attention to what I’m saying?" asked Seamus irritably.

"No," said Ron truthfully.

"Fine then, I’m leaving," Seamus said. As he got to the door he turned around and called back, "Class starts in ten minutes. You’d better be in the Common Room in five; McGonagall’s waiting to take us."

It was dark. Very dark; Harry had not lit the candle in what he figured was the equivalent of at least two weeks. There was no reason, really, except that he was too tired to move much from the cot. He wondered at first if there had been some poisoning in on of the jars; then he realized it must just have been from the despair creeping through his all.

Beside him was the table full of jars, but he had not had occasion to use any of the ointments since before he stopped lighting the candles. Now and again, he wondered briefly why the jars had been put there at all—for his own use, or for anothers?—but soon tired from the mental strength it took to wonder.

Nothing had disturbed the dark of the dungeon cell since he had been put there by Lucius Malfoy. His meals appeared to him on a tray just beside his bed, whenever he wished for them—which was not often. Hunger seemed a thing of the past, not worth worrying about.

The spell that had bewitched him weeks before had not come back, and he was glad. For days after his headlong plunge into the large iron door of the dungeon he ached all over; not even the strange and wonderful salve that had healed his spider-bites could help much.

Often he wondered what the spell had been, why it had been, and who had inflicted it. But after a while he did not care—it didn’t matter, after all. By now he knew with full certainty that he was guarded more closely than he had ever been in the bedroom-prison, that he was watched in many more ways than one.

He was now on the cot, staring up at the ceiling he could not see. A spider crawled across his hand, but he did not care; he only lay very still so that the spider would pass by. It did.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, and inexplicably, the cell flooding with light. Harry’s eyelids snapped shut—he was so used to the darkness that the piercing light hurt with a very sharp pain. His hands, too, flew to his eyes to shield them from the light.

A cold laugh echoed through the stone dungeon. "I see you’re surprised at the light," Lucius Malfoy drawled. "Didn’t you burn the candles I sent you?"

The words, for he had not heard words in a very long time, echoed strangely through his mind.

"No," said Harry. His voice was strangely croaky; when he tried to whet his lips he found his mouth to be very dry. Water. Water I need water please give me water I need—"I’d like water," he said aloud, a little more assurance in his tone.

No sooner than he had spoken than did a glass of extremely dubious-looking, brackish water appear beside him. Lucius Malfoy’s lip curled, but he did not say anything for a moment.

"So," Malfoy said finally. "So."

"So what?" He had meant to sound defiant—instead he only croaked still more.

"So, Harry Potter, I have something to show you," said Malfoy smoothly, sneering. "Something that, no doubt, you will be happy to see."

"Show me what?" Harry asked. This time he didn’t even try to sound defiant; he realized that he had fully lost control of his vocal chords and that they would have to decide on their tone without him.

Malfoy strode over to where Harry sat on the cot. Harry stood quickly, then sank back down—weeks of not moving at all had nearly caused his joints how to stand, how to walk, how to run.

"Look at this," Malfoy sneered, and tossed a glass globe about the size of a soccer ball down to him. Smirking, he retreated into the shadowy corner and dimmed the light from the sphere he carried.

Harry stared into the globe unseeingly, wondering with one corner of his mind what Malfoy could be thinking. Suddenly his eyes widened; an image had begun to form inside the ball.

The image began to grow, revolving very fast. It was a person—two people—in long, black robes and tall, pointed black hats.

The image now filled the entire globe, and it came into sharp focus. Suddenly it began to move. The two figures in Hogwarts robes were both walking along a corridor—Harry recognized it as one going into the entrance hall—although they did not seem to be walking together.

The shorter figure walked slowly, drinking from a glass of clear water as she did so. Suddenly she looked towards the wall, and her face came into clear view. It was Hermione.

Harry stared at the globe hungrily. He had not realized how much he missed his friends; the sight of Hermione’s familiar face was like water in the middle of a dry desert.

Hermione turned back to face forward and took another sip of water as she did so.

Suddenly the other girl flicked a wrist around as if checking the time on a wristwatch. Suddenly she quickened her pace and passed Hermione, looking distracted—as she sped up, she bumped into Hermione, knocking the glass of water out of Hermione’s hand and causing it to spill all over the floor.

Hermione turned to her angrily. No sounds came from the globe, but Harry was sure from the look on Hermione’s face that she was not very happy. She pointed down at the puddle of water—

Suddenly a great green shape entered the frame. An enormous snake with yellow, glowing bulbous eyes confronted the two girls, who were still looking at the puddle of water on the ground.

They both went very white—Harry supposed that the head of the great snake was reflected in the water, which was good cause to be afraid—but it didn’t stop at their faces. Slowly an ashen-gray pallor crept down to their toes. Even their clothes had turned greyish white. White as—white as—Harry groped for a word.

White as marble.

"Hermione!" Harry croaked. He hadn’t meant to; he regretted it now as Malfoy emerged from the shadows, smirking.

"Yes," he said drawlingly. "I do believe that Mudblood was your…friend." He spat the last word as if it were trash.

Anger welled deep inside Harry, but he was too weak to do anything about it. Instead, he looked down at the globe.

The picture of Hermione and the other girl had been replaced. Now he saw two more figures. One was a boy with dark hair, walking towards a classroom. The other was a pearly-white ghost, floating behind him—the two seemed to be talking, but Harry could not be certain.

Harry looked closer at the ghost. It was Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor House.

Then Harry saw something else. The green snake had once more appeared in the frame—behind Nick. The dark-haired boy whitened as Hermione and the other girl had done. Nick simply turned to a dark grey, almost black.

A moment later, the picture blinked once and disappeared, and Harry was left holding a transparent glass globe in his hand once more.

He knew that Malfoy was simply waiting for him to ask about the black-haired boy, so he didn’t. Sure enough, Malfoy made a sound of impatience and strode forward until he was towering over Harry, a twisted smile on his face.

"Uh…." Harry said finally, feeling the menace in his companion’s demeanor grow with each passing moment. "Who was…he?" he asked lamely.

Malfoy gave a short, cold laugh. "I thought you might ask that. He, as you so put it, is one that bears—and disgraces—the name of Malfoy. Christof, I believe, is his given name."

Harry could not stop himself from drawing his breath in sharply. Malfoy gave another short, cold chuckle. "It is a bit disturbing, isn’t it," he drawled, "To see a best friend and a powerful ally attacked in the same short span of time, isn’t it."

Harry didn’t answer. His stomach was churning uncomfortably, and he was afraid that he would be sick.

"Would you like to see more?" Malfoy said smoothly, and without waiting for an answer he reached one long finger towards the globe and stroked it gently. Another image began to whirl inside it, growing larger until it filled the globe as it had before. Harry was startled to see a lone, red-haired figure sitting cross-legged on a dormitory bed when the image stopped. It was Ginny Weasley.

She was bending studiously over something in her lap, her brilliant red hair screening it from his view. What it was exactly Harry did not know, but from the feathery quill-tip protruding over her shoulder it was obvious that she was writing in it.

A moment later, the tip of the quill feather stopped moving. At that moment, she shook her hair out of her face, and Harry caught a glimpse of a small black book in her lap. Words were written in scarlet ink, and it seemed as if Ginny was reading them over.

Her hair fell back in front of the book, and Harry could no longer see it. Puzzled, he looked up at Malfoy. His captor was wearing a small smile, as if he relished what he saw.

Dread building inside him, Harry looked down at the globe once more. Ginny had now set the book aside and risen from the bed. She was walking towards the dormitory door, but instinctively Harry felt that something was wrong. There was something disturbing in the way she walke—as if she had no power over her own movement.

His dread nearly choked him as she opened the door, but to his surprise there was no yellow-eyed monster awaiting her there. Once more he looked at Malfoy, nonplussed, but nothing in the latter’s demeanor gave hint to what was transpiring in the glass globe.

Now Ginny was striding along an unfamiliar corridor. Again, Harry felt that all was not right in this seemingly ordinary setting. He fully expected the great green serpent to appear as it had in the other visions, but each corner Ginny turned was free of any unexpected monsters.

Several moments later—moments which seemed to Harry interminably long—Ginny arrived at what seemed to be her destination. Harry was startled to see, hanging from a wall-sconce, what looked like the stone statue of a cat.

Who had spoken those words? When? Suddenly a silvery glimmer caught his eye. Without moving his head, he looked in the direction of the wall next to his cot, and saw a corner of Danady’s Invisibilty Cloak peeping out from where he had stuffed it under the covers several weeks ago, when he was still in fear of visitors in his dungeon.

The Cloak seemed to remind him of its former owner. Danady said those words, Harry thought, feeling the sharp pain that he had not felt since before he sunk into his oblivion. It had been Danady and Isabel who’d told him about the Basilisk—the giant snake—at Hogwarts. It had been Danady who’d told Harry about the Petrification of ‘a cat’—this cat, Harry was sure. If his assumptions were correct, and this was the Petrified cat, then this must have taken place long before the other two—early in the year, when Isabel and Danady were still unsuspected.

Harry turned his attention back to Ginny. His jaw slackened involuntarily—while he had been thinking about Isabel and Danady, Ginny had dipped her hand into a pool of a silvery-white substance and began to awkwardly paint words on the stone wall of the corridor.

The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened, she wrote laboriously. Enemies of the Heir, Beware.

It was as Danady had told him then, and the infamous Chamber of Secrets had been opened and the horror therein released. Of course, the globe could be wrong, but Harry had an uneasy feeling telling him that it was exactly right.

What confused him was Ginny’s part in it. Why was she, of all inconspicous people, painting the terrifying words on the wall above where the Petrified cat hung? Was Ginny the Heir of Slytherin?

No, he remembered immediately. Danady had said one Tom Marvolo Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin—a Tom Riddle who was more commonly known as the Lord Voldemort. If so, what was Ginny doing painting Voldemort’s slogan on a Hogwarts wall?

His mind twisting in circles, Harry didn’t notice when the picture blinked out. He turned the globe over and over in his hands, aimlessly staring at it as if it would give him the answers he sought. He had nearly forgotten Lucius Malfoy’s presence in the dungeon; his questions were too urgent and needed answers too badly to let pass.

He was startled when Malfoy made a small grunting noise, as if to remind Harry of his lordly presence. Harry turned to him, his questions still unresolved, his mind still turning round and round with no possible conclusions—or rather, no reasonable conclusions. Malfoy obviously was expecting some sort of vocal questioning, but Harry was too confused to voice his concerns.

"I suppose you would like to know what is going on then," said Malfoy eventually. His air of cool I-can-wait-all-day patience was ebbing away quickly. It was not a question, and Harry did not try to answer it. Instead, Malfoy simply stroked the globe once more.

For the third time, colors began to swirl inside the globe. When the picture resolved itself, Harry was surprised to see not a peopled scene or a slinking green monster creeping around the halls, but an open book. In once glance Harry determined that it was a diary, though it had nothing written on it.

That’s the same book Ginny was writing in, Harry thought suddenly, though he could not at all explain how he knew. As if it had been prompted by his thought, a hand holding a quill descended on the page. Harry decided that this must simply be a close-up of a scene just like the others he had seen.

For a moment the quill paused and a blot of ink dropped onto the page. Harry started when he saw that the ink was slowly being drawn into the page; in a moment it had disappeared.

His attention was drawn back to the quill and the hand holding it as it began to write.

The quill hesitated for a moment, then plunged on.

The words blurred for a moment, and then slowly faded into the page just as the ink blot had before them.

A moment later, to Harry’s surprised, the ink came back—but now it formed new words, words that Harry was sure the hand had never written.

I see you are back, Ginny Weasley, they said.

Yes, scribbled Ginny—So it was her, Harry thought, and then turned back to the diary.

Oh, Tom, she continued, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint all down my front.

That is very disturbing, came the unhelpful reply.

What should I do? Ginny scrawled. Her writing was becoming unsteadier—she seemed to be quite agitated. Tom, whoever he was, certainly wasn’t helping matters.

Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom, Harry thought suddenly. When did I hear that name? Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom Tom To—

"What Arrlimon did not say is this: the Heir of Slytherin is none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort." Harry gave a start—they were more words from the conversation he’d had with Isabel and Danady before they’d been discovered. Tom—could it be the same? Could this diary spirit be one and the same as the infamous Lord Voldemort, terror of the wizarding world for over twenty years?

There’s something else, too, Ginny wrote. Percy keeps telling me I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me. Oh, what can I do?

Some will always be suspicous of everyone, Tom wrote back. There is no undue cause for alarm, I’m sure.

But there was another attack today, Ginny wrote frantically. I don’t know where I was. It’s worse than Percy suspecting me, Tom…I think I’m going mad…I think I’m the one attacking everyone!

The picture sparkled bright white for a moment, and disappeared. Harry stared at the transparent globe, much shaken.

"I could show you more," Malfoy said. The drawl had returned to his voice, along with a note of suppressed triumph. He reached to stroke the globe, but Harry pulled it out of his reach. "No," he blurted suddenly. "I don’t want to see more."

Malfoy looked shocked for a moment, but then he smiled. "I apologize," he drawled. "I should have realized these scenes of your pitiful friends might have a…negative effect on your sense of well-being."

To Harry’s surprise, he spun on his heel and exited the dungeon, his long black robe swishing behind him. Harry was left with the glass seeing-globe in the darkness, alone once more.

"Did you hear?" "Yeah, Madam Pomfrey said tonight." "Tonight!" "Can you believe it?" "It’s about time!"

The Great Hall was filled with excited conversations as Ron, accompanied by the rest of the Gryffindors who were below their sixth year and Professor McGonagall, entered for breakfast. It was exactly a week after Seamus had announced that Professor Sprout was nearly ready to brew the Mandrake Draught and revive the victims of the Heir of Slytherin. Everyone was positive that in just a few short hours, all of the long-awaited answers would be revealed.

Ron slid into a seat beside Seaumus Finnigan and George. Around him the Gryffindor’s joined in the excited conversations, but Ron remained silent, his own excitement tempered by the fact that Harry was still missing and—as far as he knew—probably dead.

"Hey, Ron," a voice called out to him. He turned to see Parvati Patil hailing him from a little farther down the table. "You know that the Draught’s going to be brewed tonight, right? Hermione’ll be revived!"

"Yeah, I noticed," said Ron sarcastically, gesturing at the gossiping crowds around him.

Parvati, looking hurt, turned back to Lavender Brown. "Well, it’s not like I couldn’t tell," muttered Ron to no one in particular.

"Come again?" George asked amiably.

"Nothing," Ron said waspishly.

"What’s up with you?" George asked.

"Nothing," Ron said again and turned pointedly back to his milk.

"Whatever," George muttered.

Ron stared into his glass of milk, swirling it gently. Fixed in his mind was the image of Hermione, still as stone, lying on a bed in the hospital wing. A surge of elation rose in him—tonight—tonight Hermione would be back to normal.

He wasn’t sure why he did it, but as they were shepherded to Gryffindor Tower from the last class of the day, Ron slipped unobtrusively from the rest of the group and hid in the restroom just off the corridor. When he was sure the class had passed, he slipped back out, resolve forming in his mind as he did so.

Suddenly he became aware of agitated footsteps, those of what sounded like a small group—no more than four or five, he guessed—of people hurrying up the corridor behind him. In a moment they would turn the corner and he would be found. At the very least he would get hundreds of points from Gryffindor; detention seemed almost inevitable.

He ran into a classroom a little ways up the hall and closed the door as far as he dared, leaving it open about two feet. Then he retreated to the back of the classroom and dropped down behind the teacher’s desk.

With the patter of footfalls came the sound of extremely agitated voices. Ron strained to hear what they said as they came into earshot.

"You are quite sure?" this voice Ron recognized as being Professor Snape, although there was something oddly tense about his normally silky-smooth voice.

"Quite sure," another confirmed. It sounded very much like McGonagall; yet in her voice, too, was an underlying urgency.

"How can you be sure?" Snape persisted. His voice sounded pale, if that could be said about someone’s voice. Ron realized that Snape was genuinely worried about something—the first time he had ever seemed genuinely worried in the nearly two years Ron had studied under him.

"The Heir of Slytherin," said Professor McGonagall with difficulty, "left another message. Right underneat the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.’ She has undoubtedly been taken by the monster, right into the Chamber itself."

"Who is it?" asked another voice. Ron couldn’t tell who this was, but it was familiar—another one of his teachers, surely.

"Ginny Weasley," said McGonagall, sounding as though she had a head cold.

The footsteps stopped suddenly as the party digested this piece of terrible information. Ron sank down to his knees, very white. "Oh, no," he moaned softly. For a moment he was tempted to run out of the classroom—a wild urge to beg McGonagall to elaborate nearly overcame him—but he remained firmly in place, realizing that his startling appearance when he was supposed to be safe in Gryffindor Tower would only put him in great trouble.

A moment later, more footsteps came running up the corridor. "I’ve just heard," said a suave voice. Ron recognized it as belonging to Professor Aracidia, the eerie Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Ron had always felt a distinct dislike of the black-haired, smooth-as-silk professor, although he couldn’t give a reason. It was not that he was mean to his students as Snape was. In fact, he was one of the more lenient teachers and taught some of the most interesting lessons—yet Ron had felt distinctly uneasy around him since his first day.

Now his glib remark sent a chill through Ron.

"Yes," said McGonagall in a strained voice. "I suppose you have. Do you have…any ideas?"

"No," said Aracidia formally. "However, I think that it would be futile to send someone in after the girl. By now, I am sure, she is no longer in need of our service." He paused for a moment and then continued, his silky, persuasive voice a sharp contrast to that of the other teachers. "Truly, I think the best course of action would be to send the students home. It seems that the School is no longer a safe haven."

"I suppose so," said McGonagall in a deflated voice. She sounded as though she were very near tears. "However, I am not sure that Dumbledore would advise it. I feel reluctant to act without his express advice…you do understand, I’m sure."

"Ah, yes, Minerva," Aracidia said consolingly. "I understand the weight of the burden placed on your shoulders. I realize that it must seem overwhelming at times like this. However, I do believe I have the piece of information that could ease that burden considerably."

There was the sound of rustling parchment. Ron edged forward and peered out of the doorway, careful not to let the huddle of teachers see him. Aracidia had indeed drawn a slender scroll from his robe, and was in the process of handing it to McGonagall.

"I think you will find this exactly what you want it to be," said Aracidia.

Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment and read it. A look of faint surprise appeared on her face as she read, but she did not say anything.

A moment later she handed it back to Aracidia. "This is very interesting," she said. "You are quite sure that this was written by Dumbledore himself?"

"Quite sure," said Aracidia firmly. "It arrived by post owl last night as I was preparing tomorrow’s lesson."

Ron saw Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrow. "Why did he send it to you, and not to me?" she asked suspiciously.

Aracidia shrugged expressively. "I am not one to question the workings of a great mind," he said with due respect. "I am honored that he would send these instructions to me, but I have no possible reason why he did so."

McGonagall’s shoulders slumped slightly. Once more she looked incredibly weary, and her eyes were bright. "I suppose that is what we will do then," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "Severus—if you would be so kind as to announce this…I don’t believe I could—," she sniffed loudly and wiped at her eyes with a large purple handkerchief. "I’ll be up in my office," she said, and left.

The other teachers, too, walked away. Snape strode determinedly in the direction of Dumbledore’s office—Ron supposed that he was carrying out McGonagall’s order.

A few moments later, the only person remaining in the hall was Aracidia. He still held the roll of parchment between his slender fingers. He was twirling it abstractedly, a satisfied smile hovering on his lips.

"All students will return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please."

Snape’s oily, magically magnified voice echoed through the school. It still had the strained note in it, Ron noticed—but it seemed as if he had mostly collected his emotions.

Ron was sitting in Gryffindor Common Room now, surrounded by the other Gryffindors but essentially alone. Everyone was glancing nervously at everyone else, wondering how many attacks there had been this time.

Ron stared dully into the fire. George had come up three times to try to talk to him, but each time Ron had brushed off the conversation irritably and demanded to be left alone.

Suddenly he determined to be present in the meeting of the teachers. He didn’t know why, but he had to know more about Ginny—and it didn’t seem as if anyone was in a hurry to come explain it to the students.

Muttering an excuse about "urgent problem", he slipped out of the Common Room. Everyone else was too occupied in their own animated speculations to pay much attention—the only person who seemed to realize that he was leaving was Neville Longbottom.

Swiftly, Neville stood up from his game of wizard chess with Dean Thomas, but Ron glared at him until he sat back down, sufficiently cowed. Last year, when Neville had tried to interfere with Harry, Ron and Hermione’s escapades involving illegal roaming of the school, he had ended up under the full body-bind curse until someone had tripped over him on their way to get a midnight drink.

"Where’re you going?" the Fat Lady asked curiously as Ron exited through the portrait hole. "I thought I heard an order restricting students to their Houses."

Ron didn’t answer, but took off at a swift-but-wary walk along the corridor towards the staff room. He arrived moments later and—as no one had yet reached the room—slipped inside.

Footsteps approached as he stood in the middle of the room, calculating his next move. Frantically, he glanced around for a hiding place—there.

It was an old wardrobe full of musty robes. Ron climbed silently in and arranged the robes about him till he was quite sure that he was invisible to the occupants of the room, as long as the wardrobe stayed nearly closed, as it was. Then, he peeked around the door, settling down to watch the events that would undoubtedly unfold.

A second after he’d arranged himself into the wardrobe, Professor Flitwick hurried into the staff room, closely followed by Professor McGonagall. Flitwick swished his wand a couple of times and the room lit up with a bright light that didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular. For one brief moment, Ron’s heart froze as Flitwick, in the process of performing his charm, happened to glance over at the wardrobe.

He held his breath and Flitwick looked away, uninterested. As he did so, Professors Snape and Aracidia, along with Madam Hooch, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Sprout, and several other teachers Ron did not recognize.

When everyone was seated, Professor McGonagall stood gravely. "I fear I must break disturbing news," she said in a queer voice. "Some of you have already heard this." She paused a moment, and Ron had the distinct impression that she was fighting back tears. "We have full reason to believe that a student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber of Secrets itself."

Proessor Flitwick burst into tears.

"Poppy," said McGonagall, turning to Madam Pomfrey, "If you would be so kind as to administer the Mandrake Draught to the patients in the hospital wing, I’m sure that Severus would be glad to help you. Please, as quickly as possible—we do not know how much time we have to set our affairs in order before the Heir of Slytherin prepares to strike again."

Madam Pomfrey nodded and slipped out, followed by Professor Snape. "I’m afraid this is the end of Hogwarts as we know it," said McGonagall in a deflated voice to her colleagues. "Now, if everyone could please begin to pack. I suppose that that is in order."

The staff room emptied in silence, each teacher extremely solemn-faced.

When they had all left, Ron exited the wardrobe and began to run as quietly as possible to the hospital wing. Surely if Madam Pomfrey saw him, she’d let him stay to see Hermione—surely—

He arrived, panting, at the hopsital wing a moment later. Murmurs came from inside, and he was strangely reluctant to enter.

"Severus, if you please…left cabinet…" a few words of the conversation jumped out at him, and he had the sense to move out of sight as Snape opened the door of the hospital wing and entered the supply room across the hall. Seeing what might be his only chance, Ron snuck in through the half-open door and ducked down behind one of the beds farthest from where Madam Pomfrey bustled about busily, preparing equal portions of the Draught.

A moment later, Snape came back, holding something Ron could not see. Carefully he arranged what looked like tiny glasses on the counter and Madam Pomfrey poured steaming potion into each one.

"Proceed, then," Snape said in a tight voice.

Madam Pomfrey rubbed hard at her eyes and then took one of the small glasses, full of thick red liquid, and went to the first bed. The curtain obscured his view, and Ron could not see what happened after that, but a moment later Beatrice Walker appeared, fully revived but looking a little pale.

Not long after, all of the patients had been restored. Madam Pomfrey sent them to their dormitories for questioning at the hands of their Heads of Houses, but she kept Hermione in the hospital wing "till she got back", because she was looking a bit paler than the rest.

There was another patient who stayed, Ron noticed, although the curtain blocked his view and he could not tell who it was. Snape conversed with this patient in a low voice for several minutes, before leaving quickly to get McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey followed, leaving the hospital wing empty except for Ron, Hermione, and the other patient.

After he was sure that no one was coming back, Ron stood up and tiptoed to the edge of the curtain. Luckily, Hermione was on the bed nearest to it and he was able to whisper "Hermione!" quite unobtrusively.

Ron could see Hermione’s shadow through the curtain. As she heard her name called, she sat up quickly and looked around.

"Hermione, it’s me, c’mere," Ron whispered. Unfortunately, this time his voice had attracted the attention of the other person in the hospital wing.

"Who’s there?" said a clear voice, a suspicious edge to the words. "Listen—you—hang on."

"No, wait," Hermione said. "It’s—,"

But the other person had already drawn back the curtain, and Ron came face-to-face with the boy who had been attacked at the same time as Nearly Headless Nick.

"Who are you?" the dark-haired boy asked suspiciously.

What’s his name, what’s his name, what’s his name, Ron wondered frantically. What had McGonagall and Dumbledore said his name was? Something Malfoy. Instantly, his lip curled slightly.

"What’s it to you?" he asked surlily.

"Ron," said Hermione reprimandingly. Ron ignored her.

What had McGonagall and Dumbledore said about him, anyway? It had something to do with Harry….

"Who are you?" Malfoy said again, suspiciously. He was no taller than Ron, nor was he stockier, but his persistance made Ron falter a bit.

"Uh—listen, just leave me alone," he finally said confusedly. "Hermione, listen, there’s something awful I’ve got to tell you—,"

"I still don’t know who you are," Malfoy said. "I’ll call for a Professor if you don’t get out—I really don’t think you’re supposed to be in here."

Suddenly Ron remembered—Christof Malfoy was his name. His parents had been Harry’s protectors…his attack meant that Harry was no longer safe. Ron’s stomach dropped like a stone.

"Just get out of my way, Malfoy," he snarled. It was not until he had pushed the black-haired boy roughly to the side that he remembered that Christof was not a true Slytherin. Oh well. He’d certainly deserved the push.

"Hermione," Ron muttered, trying to block Christof out of the conversation, "Listen. The worst thing possible has happened. Dumbledore’s gone—they took him away a week ago—and now my sister Ginny’s been snatched by the monster and taken in the the Chamber of Secrets. You’ve got to help me. The teachers don’t know anything—they’re going to close the school, Aracidia convinced them it’s more danger than it’s worth to go after Ginny."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. "You think you’re going in there yourself?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "But I don’t know how—you’ve got to help me, Hermione—even if you don’t come in—help me find where it is—,"

"You’re going to go in there?" said another voice. Ron had completely forgotten the other boy in the hospital wing; now Christof, very white, came to stand in front of Ron. "Listen, you don’t know what you’re saying. The Chamber of Secrets is horrible—and the monster—I don’t know what it is, but my dad does and he said it was terrible—really, you can’t possibly think that—,"

"I’m going," said Ron stubbornly. "And if you try to stop me I’ll—I’ll—," he fingered his wand, groping for a good idea. "Just don’t try it," he finally said.

An awkward silence filled the hospital wing. "Fine, then," said Christof after a moment. He sounded determined. "If you’re going, I’m going to help you find it and I’m going in with you."

"No way," said Ron immediately, eyeing the green-and-silver pendant the other boy wore. "No way." He almost said "No way am I going in with a Slytherin", but stopped himself in time.

"Yes," Christof persisted. "You’ll never find it on your own. I don’t know where it is, but at least I know how to find it."

"How?" Hermione asked, interest in her voice.

"Uh—somewhere with access to pipes," Christof said, thinking hard. "I don’t know what kind of pipes, just pipes."

"Like what?" Ron asked, raising his eyebrows.

"What about a sink—a toilet—a shower—a bathtub—something like that?" Hermione offered.

"Yeah," Ron said, interest betraying him also. "And anyway—why pipes? What do pipes have to do with it all?"

"Uh, listen, we’ve got to go somewhere else quick," said Christof uneasily. "The teachers’ll be coming back soon. And then you’re plan won’t work. And, er, you still haven’t told me your name yet," he said to Ron awkwardly.

"Ron Weasley," Ron offered. "Come on, I have just the place."

Harry stared hard at the globe in his hands, concentrating hard on Hermione. He’d been doing this off and on ever since Lucius Malfoy had visited him the day before; so far nothing had happened.

He had tried stroking the globe, as Malfoy had, with the thought of the vision he would like to receive firmly in his mind. I want to see more about Hermione, he’d think, or, I want to see why Ginny is writing to Voldemort. It never worked; in fact, he was beginning to think that it was some sort of wizard television set and that it only played specific, pre-programmed scenes.

On a sudden strange inspiration, Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from where he had stuffed it between the cot and the stone wall and draped it around himself. Then he stared once more at the globe and thought hard, I want to see Ron.

Nothing happened. He stroked it, the same thought in mind. Still nothing.

Sighing, he pulled the Cloak off and let the globe drop onto the cot. It was no use, after all.

The light, flickering crazily, caught his attention. His candle—he had taken to lighting candles once more—was nearly completely used up; a moment later it guttered and died, leaving a hot pool of wax on the floor where Harry had placed the candleholder.

He stuck another candle into the brass holder and ignited it with a fingerful of fire-starter ointment. The flame leaped high, nearly scorching his fingers, and provided once more a small area of flickering light for him to see by.

Absentmindedly, he ran a finger along the globe, his unanswered questions about Ginny’s strange behavior running ceaselessly through his head.

Suddenly colors began to whirl in the globe; an image was rapidly growing inside. A moment later, Harry was presented with the picture of an empty dormitory. He recognized it from the picture earlier—it was Ginny’s.

A moment later, the door opened and Ginny walked in, a dejected look on her face. Judging by the book she tossed onto her four-poster—101 Magical Herbs and Fungi—she had just gone through the torment of her first Potions lesson.

Her eyes looked suspiciously bright as she sprawled on her bed. Idly, she picked up A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. She thumbed through it, blinking her eyes rapidly.

Quite unexpectedly, a small book dropped out of the middle of her Transfiguration textbook. It was the same book she had held in the earlier scene, the small black book in which she had written to "Tom". Her face registered surprise as she picked it up—Must be before the other one, Harry thought—and began to thumb through it.

A smile spread slowly over her face and a moment later she jumped up and retrieved a quill from the top of her bureau. Dipping it into the ink, she put the tip of the quill to the page.

The picture blinked suddenly, although this time it didn’t disappear. Now, Harry was looking at another close-up of Ginny’s hand, writing in the diary.

"I’m so glad I’ve found something that I can confide in. I haven’t been here at Hogwarts for long, and I haven’t made any wonderful friends that I can tell anything to." She paused for a moment, then continued. Harry wondered briefly why the ink hadn’t yet been sucked into the page.

"I wonder who Tom Riddle is," Ginny wrote. "This is his diary, but it’s fifty years old and he never wrote in it, so I suppose he wouldn’t mind me borrowing it for a while. Until I get a good friend, at least."

Now the ink was being pulled into the page. Ginny’s hand froze over the page, and Harry was sure that surprise was written all over her face.

A moment later, the ink came back in re-formed words.

Ginny’s hand went to the diary immediately—Harry had the distinct impression that she was so excited to have found a confidant that she didn’t think twice about the long-term consequences of her short-term actions.

"My name is Ginny Weasley," she scribbled. Her hand wobbled slightly in her excitement. "I’m a first year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Hello, Ginny Weasley, Riddle wrote back. I attented Hogwarts also.

"Oh," Ginny wrote. Her hand hovered over the page for a moment and then she continued. "How are you like this—you know, writing to me?" she asked.

I have preserved my memories in a more permanent fashion than a typical diary, Riddle replied. This way my memories cannot be erased, no matter hard others may try.

"But I don’t understand," Ginny scrawled. "Why would anyone want to destroy your diary?"

"What kind of things?" Ginny wrote curiously.

Let me show you, Riddle replied.

The steady drip of an out-of-order sink resounded off the stone walls of the dimly lit bathroom as if a thousand men were pounding bass drums in synch.

"You’re quite sure about this place?" Christof asked stiffly, for the fifth time.

"Yes," Hermione replied. "No one ever comes in here. It’s a good place to start."

Christof began to prowl around the bathroom, examining the sinks and the toilets. He seemed especially interested in a particular sink, one Myrtle told them had been broken "for ages".

"I don’t quite trust him," Ron muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, stop it," Hermione said waspishly. "Leave, if you don’t."

Ron scowled, but stayed put.

Hermione tapped her foot impatiently and checked the watch she wore. "Hurry up," she complained. "Somehow I doubt that whatever we’re looking for is in here, and if we have to search all the bathrooms in a few hours we’ve got to hurry."

"No," said Christof in a strange voice. "It—it’s here."

Hermione and Ron both sprinted to the sink. "Where?" they asked in unison.

"Here," said Christof, pointing to a small symbol etched into the metal.

Hermione peered at it in the dim light of the bathroom. "It’s a snake," she said confusedly. "But—that could mean anything—we’ve no way to know—,"

"Of course it’s right," said a smooth voice from behind them. All three turned around sharply, startled. Professor Aracidia stood a few feet away, watching them with a queer smile hovering on his lips. "I must say, Mr. Malfoy, you do have a fine mind." His words were mild, but there was a hint of pleased surprise hidden beneath.

Christof didn’t answer, but looked doubtfully at Aracidia. "Uh—thanks," he said finally. He was obviously waiting for Aracidia to leave, but the Professor had no intention of doing so.

"Well—speak the word," he said impatiently after a few moments of stony silence. "Quickly. We haven’t all day—that poor child—," he turned and gave a significantly pitying look to Ron.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Please—let’s go." He looked decidedly pale in the flickering candlelight coming from the wall sconces.

"Er—okay," said Christof awkwardly, staring hard at the pipe. He swayed back and forth slightly, and Hermione wondered uneasily if he was going into some sort of trance that they would have to pull him out of.

Suddenly he let out a low hiss. Hermione and Ron gaped wordlessly as the sink began to move. A moment later it sank, right out of sight, exposing a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

Ron gasped.

"I’m going in there, then," he said after a moment’s stunned pause.

"Me too," said Hermione in a small voice.

"Me too," repeated Christof.

"But I will go first, children," said Aracidia sonorously. "If there is something down there, something terrible, then I do not want three so young putting themselves in such danger."

Christof glanced sharply at the teacher, but Aracidia’s face was expressionless except for a well-meaning concern.

"All right then," he said rather roughly.

Aracidia slid his legs into the pipe. A moment later he had disappeared.

Ron swung a leg into the pipe, but Christof was faster. Shoving Ron gently aside, he slipped into the pipe after Aracidia.

"Whatever," Ron muttered, and followed.

A moment later, Hermione was left alone in the bathroom, hearing only the steady drip of the leaky sink. Drawing in her breath resolutely, she, too, slid into the pipe.

It was like rushing down a very long, very dark, very slimy slide. More pipes branched off of it in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward. Hermione knew instinctively that she was falling deeper below the school even than the dungeons.

Just as she had begun to worry about what would happen when she hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and she shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in. It was lit with a weird, greenish light, bright enough only for her to see the faces of her companions as she wiped her slimy hands on her equally slimy robes.

"Lumos," said Hermione. The tip of her wand flared brightly for a moment, and then became a steady golden light, casting a yellow glow about ten feet all around them.

"That’s better then," said Ron, his voice echoing in the tunnel.

"We must be miles below the school," said Hermione.

"Under the lake, probably," supplied Ron.

They began to walk slowly forward. The eerie green light had grown dimmer; the glow from Hermione’s wand was now nearly smothered by the darkness of the tunnel around them.

As they turned round a dark bend in the tunnel, Ron gave a low exclamation. "There’s something up there," he said fearfully.

They could just see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving.

"A Basilisk," said three voices. Ron looked confusedly at his companions.

"A what?" he whispered.

"A Basilisk," said Hermione. "A large snake—hatched out of a chicken’s egg under a toad—it’s very venomous, and if you look it in the eye it can kill you."

"That’s what’s been attacking everyone?" Ron asked. "But—you were all just—Petrified, I mean—,"

"I had no idea," Hermione whispered. "I just saw these eyes…and Ron, it’s been Petrifying people because—because no one saw it face-to-face! Beatrice Walker—she saw it through her camera. Christof—you saw it through Nearly Headless Nick, didn’t you! I saw the reflection in the glass of water I’d spilled. None of us died, because none of us had looked it straight on."

Christof was nodding. "That’s right," he said, half to himself. "And the voices…."

"What voices?" Hermione asked suddenly, rounding on him. "You’ve been hearing voices?"

"Yeah," said Christof. "Disembodied voices. Every time before someone was going to be attacked. I was chasing it when I got attacked—I had no idea what it could’ve been. I didn’t see the whole thing either, just these big, bulbous yellow eyes—," he gave an involuntary shudder.

Hermione looked at him strangely. "You heard the Basilisk talk?" she asked. "You don’t mean that—you can’t—,"

"Yeah," Christof said again. "How did you think I knew to check the pipes?"

Ron was looking from one to the other, very confused. "What on earth are you talking about?" he asked irritatedly.

"I’m a Parseltongue," Christof said simply.

"A what?" Ron asked incredulously. "No—I know what it is. It’s just—you can’t—," he shot Christof a suspicious glance.

"I am, though," Christof clarified. "And all this year I’ve been hearing voices in the walls—that was the Basilisk moving through the pipes."

"Oh," said Ron, still suspicious.

Suddenly a jet of violet light lit the tunnel. All three of them jumped out of the way, white-faced and panting.

"What—was—that?" Christof gasped. The three were suddenly united in fear.

Professor Aracidia, who had edged away slowly as Christof was speaking, now stood facing them, wand held ready. "Don’t move," he said triumphantly. "Walk slowly forward. Do not try to draw your wands. Miss Granger, nox your light and replace your wand in your pocket. Do not try to use it against me, Miss Granger. Trust me, it will not work."

Christof, Ron, and Hermione gaped at him. "What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"C’mon, Professor," Ron said irritatedly, "We’ve got to go. There’s a Basilisk sleeping in the corner—my sister’s somewhere down here—,"

"Ron’s right, it’s not the time for jokes," Hermione said falteringly.

"I am not joking, Miss Granger," said Aracidia coldly. "Now, please put your wand away before I am compelled to do so for you." He raised his own wand a little higher, pointing it toward Hermione.

"Expelliarmus!" bellowed Christof as Aracidia menaced Hermione. The Professor’s wand flew out of his hand and Christof caught it.

"Watch your back next time," he said coolly.

"What did you do?" Ron asked, impressed.

"A Disarming charm," said Christof without taking his eyes, or his wand, off of Aracidia. "My dad taught it to me. Listen, at least one of us has to keep going. At least one of us has to stay with him. How will we split?"

"I’ll keep going," Ron volunteered quickly.

"Okay," said Christof. "Hermione?" he turned to look at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Er—I’ll—,"

Suddenly Aaracidia darted out of spellrange and barreled into Ron, knocking him over onto the stone floor. Quickly, before either Hermione or Christof could curse him, he had grabbed Ron’s wand and brandished it at them.

"So," he said triumphantly. "So."

"So what?" Ron, still on the floor, asked defiantly.

"You should never try to outsmart a teacher," said Aracidia, ignoring Ron’s remark. "Now, both of you—drop your wands. NOW! Or I will make you."

Hermione’s wand fell with a small plunk. Christof hesitated for a moment, but then he, too, dropped the wands he carried.

"Accio! Accio! Accio!" Aracidia cried, and the wands flew up into his hands. Immediately he picked out his own and fingered it as he spoke.

"As I said before, never try to oustmart a teacher. Now, all of you, follow me."

He began to walk slowly backward, nearer and nearer towards the dark shape of the Basilisk.

"What are you doing?!" Christof asked furiously.

Aracidia did not answer, but kept his wand trained on the three students.

"Lumos," he whispered after a moment. As the light flared, they could see that the skin of the Basilisk was a bright, poisonous green. The enormous snake was not moving; it seemed to be asleep.

Aracidia walked past it, his wand never faltering. As they neared the form, they saw that it was not the Basilisk itself, but an unused skin.

Suddenly, as they entered the next, dark tunnel, the light at the end of Aracidia’s wand went out.

Aracidia cursed softly for a moment, and tried to relight it, but the darkness remained complete.

"Listen, I’m going to see if I can get past him," Christof whispered in the dark, and slipped away.

A moment later, there was a shout as he knocked into Professor Aracidia. Red sparks shot up—Christof seemed to have gotten his wand, or at least a wand, back—Aracidia shouted a curse—

The tunnel began to shake slightly under their feet. A rumbling sounded, growing closer every moment—

"Run!" It was Christof yelling, up ahead. Ron and Hermione sprinted blindly up the tunnel, only to run headlong into Aracidia. All three went tumbling to the ground, a writhing mass of arms and legs.

The rumbling increased. Large chunks of the tunnel began to fall—a small chip hit Aracidia squarely in the head, and he went limp. Ron and Hermione disentagled themselves from his senseless form and stood up, doing their best to dodge the stones falling around them.

A moment later, the rumbling stopped. Hermione, on her hands and knees, began feeling around for a wand—her hand came in contact with one that had flown out of Aracidia’s hand as the stone struck him.

"Lumos!" she shouted. The light blinded her eyes for a moment, but then cast a steady glow around them.

She, Aracidia, and Ron were on one side of a large barrier made up of fallen chunks of stone. A good deal of the tunnel seemed to have caved in around them. Ron, about fifteen feet away from her, crawled over to where Aracidia lay and retrieved his own wand. Christof was nowhere to be seen.

"Christof!" Hermione shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "Christof, are you there?!"

"I’m here," came a faint reply from the other side of the wall. "This barrier’s pretty big though—are you all okay?"

"Yeah, except Aracidia," Hermione shouted back. "He got knocked out—stone hit him in the head."

"Listen, I’m going on," Christof called. "We can’t just leave Ginny in there—,"

"Yeah," Hermione called back. There was a long pause.

"Er—if I don’t come back in an hour—,"

Another very expectant pause.

"Yeah," Hermione repeated. "Go. We’ll start clearing as much of this as we can away, so you can get back when—when you’re done."

And then, at long last, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds. Christof approached, his throat dry. There was no need to pretend, as he’d had to with the snakes on the bathroom sink-pipe, that these snakes were real. Their flickering deep-green eyes looked strangely alive.

He cleared his throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker menacingly.

"Open," said Christof in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open. The halves slid smoothly out of sight and Christof, shaking now from head to foot, walked inside.

He stood at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.

His heart beating very fast, Christof stood listening to the chilling silence. Could the Basilisk be lurking in a shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was—what was her name again?—Ginny Weasley?

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpetine columns. Every careful footsetp echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him—more than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

Suddenly, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. Christof had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming red hair.

"Ginny?" Christof whispered. The hair was unmistakable—and who else could it be? He hurried closer.

"Ginny—don’t be dead—please don’t be dead—," suddenly he flung his wand aside, grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as marble, and cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she must be—

"Oh, please wake up," Christof muttered desparately. He shook her roughly, wanting more than ever to get away as quickly as possible.

"She won’t wake," said a soft voice.

Christof jumped and spun around on his knees.

A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He looked strangely blurred around the edges, as though Christof were looking at him through a misted window.

"Who’re you?" Christof asked, more roughly than he had at first intended.

"Some call me Tom Riddle," replied the black-haired stranger.

"What do you mean, she won’t wake?" Christof asked after a moment, choosing to ignore a name he did not recognize. "She’s alive, right? She’s not…."

"She’s still alive," said Riddle, not taking his eyes off Christof’s face. "But only just."

"Who are you?" Christof asked suddenly, staring at the weird misty light shining around him. "Are you—a ghost?"

"I am a memory," said Riddle queitly. "Preserved in a diary for fifty years."

Christof gave him one long, very nonplussed look. "What do you mean?" he asked finally.

Riddle nodded towards a small object on the floor near Ginny. It was a little black diary, lying open on the floor.

"But there’s nothing written in it," Christof said stupidly.

"I made sure that my memories were preserved in a more sure way than ink, Christof Malfoy," Riddle said with a small smile.

"Wha—how did you know—," Christof began, but then decided there were more pressing things to deal with.

"You’ve got to help me. We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a Basilisk…I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment…please, help me—,"

Riddle didn’t move. Christof, sweating, had managed to hoist Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand again.

But his wand had gone.

Harry stared at the globe in morbid fascination, unable to tear his eyes away. The scene he watched was very convincing…it was not a wonder that Ginny continued to write to "Tom" after she had seen this.

It was not a wonder then, either, that Hagrid had been expelled. With such convincing evidence to his guilty state…but it was Riddle who had done it, as Danady had told him, wasn’t it?

It wouldn’t be too surprising if it was Hagrid, Harry mused. Hagrid had an unusual and sometimes dangerous love for monsters, the more vicious the better. He could remember all too well Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon that Hagrid had kept in Harry’s first year at Hogwarts, and Fluffy, the enormous, three-headed dog he’d loaned Dumbledore to guard a valuable posession.

And this dark, scuttling creature he had just seen could easily be the monster housed in the Chamber of Secrets, couldn’t it?

Harry started. Who had told him that?

If Danady had told him that, then, how could Hagrid’s monster have been the Monster?

It couldn’t have, of course—the many-legged creature of Riddle’s presentation was most definitely not a snake—but if so, what was it?

The answer to that, he realized, was easy enough. Hagrid did have a liking for unusual creatures—who was to say he hadn’t been like that all his life? Of course he had.

And Tom Riddle still was, and ever had been, the Heir of Slytherin.

"Did you see—?" Christof asked, supporting Ginny with one hand and groping around the dim floor for his wand with the other.

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him—twirling Christof’s wand between his long fingers.

Christof stared at him. "Who are you, anyway?" he asked suspiciously, for the third time.

Riddle didn’t asnwer, but his small smile broadened.

Christof lowered Ginny to the floor; she was growing too heavy to hold up anymore. Suddenly he lunged at Riddle, trying to grab his wand—

A moment later he was thrown against the enormous, monkeyish statue. Riddle still stood, a few feet away, his smile very wide. He was pointing the wand not at Christof, but at Ginny.

"I suggest you do not try that again," he said smoothly, and inclined his head slightly towards Ginny.

"I’ve waited a long time for this," Riddle continued after a moment. "For the chance to see you. To speak to you."

"Why?" Christof asked surlily, his eyes fixed on Ginny’s limp figure and the wand trained thereon.

"Several reasons," Riddle said, the smile never leaving his face.

"How did Ginny get like this?" Christof cut him off suddenly.

"Well, that’s an interesting question," said Riddle pleasantly. "And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisibile stranger."

"What are you talking about?" Christof asked, beginning to feel faintly annoyed with Riddle’s persistent smile.

"The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. You see, a lonely soul may find my diary a wonderful source of empathy and comfort. I always know just the right thing to say." Riddle smirked. "Little Ginny’s been writitng in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes—how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand books…it’s very boring, you know, having to listen to the silly troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom…I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in…it’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket…."

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit him.

"I’ve always been able to charm the people I needed," he continued, smirking. "Ginny poured out her sould to me, and her sould happened to be exactly what I looked for. I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of little Miss Weasley’s deepest fears, her darkest secrets. Soon, I was able to feed a few of my secrets to Miss Weasley, to start pouring a little of my soul back to her…."

Christof stared at Riddle in horrified fascination. "What do you mean?" he asked finally, his mouth gone very dry.

"Haven’t you guessed by now?" Riddle asked softly. "It was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the roosters. She painted the message on the wall. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on three Mudbloods, the Squib’s cat, and you. Unfortunately, each attack went awry.

"But I believe I prefer it this way, Christof Malfoy," Riddle said, very softly. "Just you and me." He smiled once more, the broad, triumphant smile of before.

"I still don’t understand," Christof said, stalling for time. "Why is Ginny down here?"

Riddle continued to smile. "Haven’t you figured that out yet?" he asked softly. "I don’t care about killing Mudbloods anymore. For months now, my new target has been you."

The dim light emanating from Hermione’s wand served only to illuminate an area of about ten feet around them. The wand had been placed on the floor near Hermione’s foot—close enough to snatch away should Aracidia wake and attempt to grab it. His own wand had been crushed in the fall; now only a few twiggy slivers remained of the once-fine willow wand.

Hermione and Ron, sweating, were attempting to dislodge a few of the smaller stones from the fall in hopes that Christof would be able to get through when he returned.

"I’ve got to stop a minute," said Ron, panting. "Listen, Hermione, we’re never going to get through this."

"We’ve got to!" Hermione said desparately. "If he comes back and he needs to get through quickly—,"

There was a long pause.

"I guess you’re right," Ron said finally. "But we’ve got to rest for a minute. If we conserve our strength we’ll be able to do more."

Hermione gave a forced laugh. "I guess you’re right," she sighed. With evident relief she let go the stone she had been trying to dislodge and sat down, drawing a deep breath.

Her hands smarted. She looked down at them and saw that they were blistered and cracked; in more than one place the skin had torn apart and scarlet blood was dripping onto her robes.

Maybe Ron’s right, she thought tiredly. Maybe this is useless.

But as soon as she had the thought it was replaced with the image of Christof, cornered against the rough barricade they were struggling to destroy by a giant Basilisk, waiting with his eyes covered as the Basilisk reared back—

"I reckon you’re right, anyway, Hermione," Ron said, interrupting Hermione’s horrific daydream. "I guess if Malfoy—,"

"Call him Christof," Hermione broke in.

"Whatever, Christof," Ron amended. "I guess if Christof had to get away in a hurry—I mean, who knows what’ll happen—,"

"Yeah," Hermione replied. A dark thought had come into her mind; if Christof was forced to flee, what would become of Ginny?

Ron seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he had become suddenly quiet. "Hermione…." He began, and stopped.

"Yeah?" Hermione asked, giving him a searching look.

"Nothing," Ron muttered quickly, and looked away.

Suddenly both were distracted as Aracidia stirred and moaned softly. Hermione cast Ron a frightened look—Aracidia had proved himself all too capable of overpowering the both of them and gaining a wand. There was no telling what would happen if another spell was let off in the half-ruined tunnel; several large cracks had appeared in the roof, making it seem as if enormous chunks of stone were balanced precariously in their sockets, waiting for a misguided attempt at magic to set them free.

Aracidia moaned again, and his eyes opened slowly. "W—wa—wat—," he croaked. "Water."

Ron stared scornfully at him. "We don’t have any water," he said furiously. "And if we did, I wouldn’t give any to you."

"Ron!" Hermione scolded. "He’s still a teacher, you know."

Ron turned to stare at Hermione, open-mouthed. "He’s still a teacher," he mimicked. "C’mon, Hermione! Have you forgotten already what he tried to do to us back there?"

"No," Hermione defended, "But—but I don’t think that—that Dumbledore would refuse him water. Not that we have any, anyway," she sighed.

"Yeah, I could use some too," Ron said.

Aracidia attempted to sit up, but fell back on the cold stone floor immediately. Good, Hermione thought with relief, He got hit hard enough to keep him down for a while. Oh, Christof, hurry up!

"I’m going to try to move more of these," said Hermione determinedly, inclining her head towards the blockage of stones.

"Yeah, I guess we should start again," Ron replied dispiritedly, but made no move to rise from the stone floor.

"Oh, come on," Hermione snapped. "I can’t do this all alone."

Ron sighed and rose slowly to his feet, wiping fruitlessly at his slime-covered robes.

A half of an hour later, they had managed to create an opening in the wall large enough to reach a hand through.

"It’s something," Hermione said wearily, pushing half-heartedly at a large, jagged stone in the attempt to widen the opening.

"Yeah," Ron said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grimy sleeve.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione said suddenly, slumping against the stone barrier. "We’re never going to make it through here."

"Sure we are," Ron said savagely, kicking furiously at the stones.

As he kicked it, the stone dislodged and flew outwards out of the barricade of stones.

"That’s it!" Hermione shouted, and threw her arms around Ron. "Ron, you did it! We were trying to get them out the wrong way—look it’s much easier to push them out than to pull them in!"

Ron turned crimson. "Uh, sure," he muttered.

Hermione let go, her eyes glistening. "Finally," she said. "I was about to give up, too."

"Er, yeah," Ron said, and kicked another small stone out of its place in the wall.

"I had a feeling that you would attempt the heroic," Riddle continued, twirling Christof’s wand between his long fingers. His eyes glinted triumphantly, never straying from Christof’s frightened face. "Especially if you accidentally met the Mudblood, Granger and the Muggle-lover, Weasley."

"But—what do you mean, accidentally?" Christof asked suspiciously.

Riddle laughed softly. "You are more trusting than I would have thought, for one of your precarious position, Christof Malfoy," he said quietly. "You really didn’t think that your meeting with the Mudblood girl was chance? You didn’t assume that the Weasley boy often decided to sneak out of his dormitory and hide in the infirmary to witness the revival of many Petrified students?" Riddle laughed again. "I must say, I did overestimate your abilities."

"What did you do to Ginny?" Christof asked, ignoring Riddle’s quiet jibes.

"I didn’t do anything," Riddle said with a smirk. "She wrote her own farewell on the wall and came down here to wait. I must admit, she struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left in her…she put too much into the diary, and into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last. I have been waiting for you to come since we arrived here. I knew that you would. I have many questions for you, Christof Malfoy."

"Like what?" Christof spat, anger coursing through him.

"Well," said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, "First of all I’d like to know why a fairly intelligent boy would choose to defy Lord Voldemort, acting, ridiculously, as a spy for deluded Muggle-lovers such as Albus Dumbledore?"

"What does it matter to you?" Christof snarled. "Voldemort was after your time."

"That is where you are wrong, Christof Malfoy," said Riddle softly. "Voldemort is my past, present, and future."

He pulled Christof’s wand from where he had pocketed it and began to trace it through the air, writing three, shimmering words.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters rearranged themselves to form new words.

I Am Lord Voldemort

"You see?" he whispered. "it was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin, Greatest of the Hogwarts Four?" He gave a small, deprecating laugh. "No, I think not. And so I fashioned myself a new name—a name I knew would one day be feared and held in high regard, one day when I was the most powerful sorcerer in the world!"

"You’re not," said Christof, breathing hard.

"Not what?" said Riddle coldly.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," Christof replied, his voice choked with anger.

Riddle smiled, but before he could answer Christof continued. "I’m sorry to disappoint you and all that," he said, struggling to keep his voice mild, "But you’re not. The greatest sorcerer in the world is Albus Dumbledore."

Riddle began to laugh coldly once more, his face wearing a very ugly look. "Albus Dumbledore has been driven out of this school by the mere memory of me," he hissed.

"That’s not true!" Christof shouted, no longer attempting to rein in his words. "He—he’s not as gone as you might think!"

The moment he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing. He’d hoped to scare Riddle, to stall for time—anything that might prove to be to his advantage.

Instead, Riddle seemed to ignore him, and smiled pleasantly once more. "I still have questions for you, Christof Malfoy."

"Like what?" Christof retorted. Uneasily, he noted that with every passing moment Riddle’s hazy outline seemed to be growing clearer. With a sudden clarity, he knew that the longer he talked, the more life was sucked from Ginny, and the stronger Riddle grew.

Riddle smiled benignly, caressing Christof’s wand with his long fingers. "For one, I would like to know what a boy like you is doing wasting his life in the service of the losing side—following in the footsteps of his deluded parents…."

It was nearly the same question he had asked earlier, and Christof ignored the question itself.

"My parents aren’t deluded," he said, his voice shaking with rage. "They’ve just got more sense than my dad’s family!"

Riddle seemed unperturbed. "There you are wrong," he said mildly. "Your parents didn’t have the sense to keep away from the Potter boy."

Christof’s face registered blank surprise. "What does he have to do with it?" he asked, so surprised that the waves of anger boiling inside him abruptly cooled.

Now it was Riddle’s turn to show surprise, although he regained his composure almost immediately and gave a soft laugh. "Ah, I see that the gruesome details were too harsh for the ears of one so young. Did you know nothing, then of your parents this last year?"

Christof paled. "What happened?" he whispered, forgetting to be angry.

Riddle smiled broadly. "Under the direction of that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore, they were both placed in the home of one of my faithful followers. You should know them well…you do, after all, bear their name."

"And?" Christof said desperately.

Riddle’s smile grew, if possible, even broader. "Evidence was found that they’d broken their trust," he replied. "They’d spoken to Harry Potter, the precious prisoner also kept in that place. They’d even tried to help him escape. And then, in a foolish moment, your fool of a filthy father performed a truly heroic act…pity," he sighed in mock sorrow. "The curse was meant, in a burst of thoughtless anger, for Potter…."

Anger of his own coursed through Christof at Riddle’s demeaning words about his parents. "Shut up," he said finally.

Riddle laughed again. "I must give my thanks to you, Christof Malfoy, for the entertaining moments you have given me. And now—," abruptly, he did a half-turn until he was facing the statue.

And then Riddle opened his mouth and hissed—but Christof understood what he said….

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

Christof wheeled around to look up at the statue.

Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Christof saw his mouth opening wider and wider to make a huge, gaping black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.

Christof backed against a pillar, his eyes shut tightly. A huge shape hit the stone floor of the Chamber, and a small tremor shook the room. He knew what was happening, he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard Riddle’s hissing voice:

Against his will, Christof opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. A great, lithe figure clothed in a venomously green skin lay half-curled on the cold stone floor of the Chamber. Its head was lifted high above Riddle’s but it swayed as if under a trance, until Riddle pointed one long, thin finger towards Christof.

As if the finger had total control, the snake lunged forward towards the boy. Instinctively, Christof’s hands flew to shield his face—the snake rushed towards him and he could feel the chill emanating from its scaly body—A rush of wind caught him as the snake reared back to strike—

"Stop it!" he cried out, hardly realizing that he had uttered the words. And it was all over: the snake settled back docilely, as if it was a tame pet and not a fearsome, twenty-some foot long monster fond of death and destruction.

Riddle made a startled, angry noise. "Get him!" he hissed, his features contorted in senseless rage. "Get him now! The boy is behind you! Kill him!"

Christof stared at the large, motionless reptilian form before him. What had happened? Why had it stopped so suddenly, halfway through its fatal attack?

"Get the boy! Kill him!" Riddle screamed in frustrated fury. The snake rose up, swaying slightly as if unsure of whether or not to follow its master’s direction. As Riddle continued to shout commands, it slithered once more towards Christof—but this time slower, less bent on destruction.

Christof shut his eyes tightly and did not see the hesitation in the Basilisk’s movements. Any moment now, he knew, would be his last.

Riddle, who had been silent, uttered a loud oath as the snake made as if to stop. "Go on! Kill him!" he shouted feverishly.

Unable to stop himself, Christof opened his eyes a tiny bit again. The snake was hovering over him, unsure what to do—

"Good! You are almost there! Kill him! Kill him!"

Riddle’s frenzied cries seemed to agitate the Basilisk, and it swayed abover Christof, rearing back once more to strike.

Suddenly Christof spun out of reach, breathing hard. Adrenaline gave him strength, and fear made him think quickly. Casting about with his hands for something—anything—he grasped something hard and cold and long, and swung it up and over his head. A shock ran through his entire form as the object collided with the head of the large snake, and he dropped it as if it was a hot coal.

The ground shook as the snake fell to to floor with a thud. His heart beating rapidly, Christof opened his eyes again to see that the Basilisk now lay limply on the floor, one enormous fang buried in a loose, rotting piece of wood.

At his feet lay a large metal pipe, several feet long and about five or six inches wide. It was bent quite out of shape where it had connected with the Basilisk.

Riddle gave a soft, bitter laugh, drawing Christof back into the present situation. "Very good, very good," he murmured. "A surprising trick of fate, but very good."

His hands still slightly numb from the shock that had run through the metal pipe, Christof glanced over at Ginny. She lay in exactly the same position she had when he entered the Chamber, but Riddle’s outline was distinctly clearer.

Riddle followed his gaze. "Soon she will be but a mere memory," he said with a trace of triumph in his voice.

Christof didn’t answer, but turned to look steadily at Riddle. "I prefer it this way, then, Christof Malfoy," said Riddle after a moment, running his long fingers along the smooth wood of Christof’s wand. "Just you and me…" he raised the wand with a small smile. Involuntarily, Christof shut his eyes tight, knowing that this time there would be nothing to save him—

Suddenly, a breath of wind touched him gently, and a soft whir as if a great many birds were winging their way to the other side of the Chamber above him sounded. Startled and curious, Christof looked up, almost forgetting Riddle—

Not many birds, but one enormous scarlet-and-gold phoenix, was flying past him. And as it did, a small, semi-heavy object dropped into his lap.

For the first time in what must have been months, Harry had left the moldering cot and was pacing to and fro from the door to the back wall of the cell by candlelight. A sense of premonition was in the air; he felt nearly sure that something was not right—although where or how it was not right, he didn’t know.

The globe glinted eerily at him from where he had set it on the bed; it was almost as if it were mocking him for his needless worries—surely they are needless worries? He thought frantically. What could be happening…where…I’ve no cause to worry.

Restlessly, he sat back down, running a finger along the surface of the globe. He blinked in surprise as a picture began to whirl inside it—what had he been thinking about, hard enough to call up a vision in the seeing-globe?

As the picture began to revolve more and more slowly, he saw that the scene was a strange one—set in a large, dark stone chamber that looked as if it were someplace underground. Three people were at one end of the hall—and as Harry watched, the pictured closed in on that end, until he could see each person quite well.

He drew in his breath softly as his eyes rested on the first person—a small, red-haired figure he knew very well, both from his own life and from previous pictures in the seeing-globe: Ginny Weasley. She was sprawled as if asleep at the foot of an enormous stone statue, her medium-length red hair fanned out behind her and one arm flung outwards as if she had fallen there and not moved or drawn a breath since.

Another person stood nearby. Or rather, didn’t stand—he looked as if he didn’t quite exist, although how this could be possible Harry didn’t know. He was somewhat tall, with dark hair and cold, laughing eyes. He was twirling a wand in his long white fingers, and seemed to be talking triumphantly to the other person in the room.

Harry gave a start as he recognized this third person—he was the same black-haired boy whom Lucius Malfoy had identified as Christof Malfoy-Danady. Confused, Harry remembered that the last picture in which Christof had been present was when he and Nearly Headless Nick were Petrified—but how could he be standing there, then, certainly as warm and living as Harry himself?

This must be either before or after, Harry thought, perhaps something was done, and he’s not Petrified any longer, and this happened after he became un-Petrified.

His thoughts turned once more to the picture in front of him. His jaw dropped as the great stone mouth of the enormous statue began to open, revealing a great, gaping black hole. Something moved inside of its dark depths; something sinewy and poisonously green.

Harry’s heart gave a small drop as the long form of a Basilisk slid out of the statue’s mouth and onto the floor, its bulbous yellow eyes focused on the dark-haired boy with the wand. The boy spoke something, and the Basilisk reared back, turning around to advance upon Christof.

Christof threw his hands up to guard his face, his every feature spelling defeat. But just as the Basilisk prepared to strike with its long, venemous fangs, Christof cried something aloud and the snake stopped abruptly.

Harry stared at the globe—what had made it stop? But his attention was pulled back to the scene before him as the snake began to sway before Christof, as if it had not quite made up its mind what to do—or what not to do.

Meanwhile, the other dark-haired boy’s face contorted with rage, and he began shouting things Harry could not hear. After another moment of indecision, the snake turned once more on Christof, and somehow Harry knew that this time it would not stop mid-strike.

As it hurled itself upon the helpless boy, Christof rolled away with surprising agility, and caught up a long metal pipe. His eyes tightly shut, he swung it recklessly—and Harry watched, openmouthed, as it connected soundly with the snake’s green-skinned skull.

The snake reared back in agony, and then fell to the floor, one fang imbedding itself in a soft, rotting board. The strange boy stared in shock for a moment, and then became very angry in a calm, cold sort of way. He smiled icily at Christof, twirling the wand in his fingers, and spoke a few silent words.

Almost without thinking, Christof hurled himself at the form of the dead Basilisk—not knowing why he did it, he pulled the fang from the soft, rotten wood and plunged it into the diary.

A piercing scream split the air. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, staining Christof’s hands and robes red as if with thick, vividly scarlet blood. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then—

He had gone. Christof’s wand fell to the floor with a clatter and then there was silence—broken only by a low moan.

Christof rushed to Ginny Weasley’s side. She opened her eyes a tiny bit, and then blinked in surprise as an unfamiliar face greeted her.

"Who are you?" she asked distrustfully. It was no wonder, Christof thought—not after what she had been through.

"There’s no time to explain right now," he said quickly. "We should get out of here—Riddle’s gone, and the diary and the monster—but who knows what else might be waiting around here. Your brother and Hermione Granger are waiting for us further down the passage. Come on, I’ll help you."

Ginny stared at him for a moment, and then her face crumpled and she began to sob brokenly. Startled, Christof wondered what to do now…

"Oh," she said, "I’m so sorry—I didn’t know—the diary—he was so nice to me—and—and Hermione got it—and I had to get it back and—I went through her things—oh, what’ll Mum and Dad say!"

"It’s going to be okay," said Christof, patting her head awkwardly. "Come on, we’ll get you to your brother."

"Which one?" Ginny hiccuped. "You don’t mean Percy—I can’t face Percy right now—he suspected me all along—he’ll hate me after this—,"

"Not Percy," said Christof, struggling to remember the red-haired boy’s name. "Uh—Ron. He and Hermione Granger are waiting for us," he repeated.

Ginny allowed him to help her to her feet, and she followed him, still hiccuping loudly, to the other end of the Chamber.

Christof stopped as he heard a whirring of wings once more. The phoenix flew over him, alighting on his shoulder. "Thanks," said Christof softly, stroking the bird’s scarlet feathers. "I don’t know who you belong to, but thanks."

"That’s Fawkes," sniffed Ginny. "He belongs to Professor Dumbledore. I saw him the other day when—when I—," she drew a deep, shuddering breath, and then continued, "When he asked to see me cause—because I looked like I w-wasn’t feeling—quite well. Which I wasn’t," she added forlornly.

"Oh," said Christof, wishing he knew how to deal with the eleven-year-old’s tears.

They walked in silence for a moment until they came in sight of the barricade of stone—which now had a sizable hole cleared in it. A black robe covered the hole, as if someone in a Hogwarts uniform was standing in front of the hole that had been opened.

"Er—hello," Christof called softly. Fawkes suddenly flew off his shoulder and into the hole, just as Hermione stepped away from it. She smiled brightly and waved Christof and Ginny in, noting with concern Ginny’s tearstained cheeks. "She’s had a rough time," Christof murmured as Ginny rushed to greet her brother. "Don’t make her answer any questions."

Suddenly he looked around sharply. "Where’s Aracidia?" he asked, his heart sinking. Hermione smiled brightly.

"He’s still out cold," she said, pointing to where she and Ron had dragged him, off the the side of the passage. "He woke up a little, but when he tried to sit up the effort made him pass out again."

"How are we going to get him out of here?" Christof asked anxiously. "None of us can carry him—and if we were to wake him—," he shivered involuntarily, remember the cold light in Aracidia’s eyes, identical to that in Riddle’s.

"We’ve been discussing that for the past half-hour," Hermione agreed. "I don’t—what is that?" she cut herself off. Fawkes the Phoenix had alighted on Professor Aracidia’s still form, gripping his robe hard in his steely talons. Slowly, though seemingly effortlessly, he rose in the air with the man still clutched firmly in his grip.

"He is a phoenix," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I’ve heard they can carry frightfully heavy loads."

"Woah," said Ron reverently. They stood in awed silence for a moment as Fawkes hovered, adjusting his grip on Aracidia’s robes. Then the phoenix began to fly slowly back down the passage, towards the pipe that would lead them back up into Hogwarts.

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley rushed towards her daughter. "Oh, Ginny, Ginny!"

"Mum!" Ginny said in a small, quavery voice, and allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug.

Hermione, however, looked passed them. Standing beside the mantelplace in Professor McGonagall’s officse stood not only Professor McGonagall, but Professor Dumbledore also, smiling benignly. Fawkes went whooshing past Hermione, after setting Aracidia’s limp body to the floor, and alighted on Dumbledore’s shoulder, looking serenely pleased with himself.

Suddenly Mrs. Weasley looked up at the three other slime-covered students as if seeing them for the first time. "You saved her!" she cried to none of them in particular. "Oh, you saved her! How did you do it? Who did it?"

"I think we’d all like to know that," said a Professor McGonagall weakly.

Mrs. Weasley unwrapped one arm from around Ginny and embraced Ron. "How did you do it?" she asked again.

"Mum—there was a cave-in in this tunnel—I didn’t really do anything," Ron said honestly, his ears reddening.

"Yes, you did," said Christof suddenly. Mrs. Weasley turned to him as if seeing him for the first time, but before she could ask any questions he continued. "Listen, it was all an accident that we ended up on different sides of that barrier—and if you two hadn’t’ve cleared a hole, I—we—never would have been able to get back in."

"So—it was you who…" Mrs. Weasley trailed off, nonplussed. Then, seeming to recover her sense of courtesy, she asked his name politely.

"Christof," he said slowly, not sure what reaction she would have if he revealed his full name.

Professor Dumbledore stepped forward quickly. "Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy is a very courageous young man. I am sure that you have heard of his father, Arrlimon Malfoy—more commonly known as Arrlimon Danady."

Now it was Christof’s turn to redden. Mrs. Weasley gave him a long, searching look, and then turned back to Professor Dumbledore. "As a matter of fact, I have heard the name before," she said evenly. "I have great respect for your father," she added, looking at Christof.

Christof looked down at the floor, remembering Riddle’s biting words. "The curse was meant, in a burst of thoughtless anger, for Potter…."

Dumbledore seemed to notice Christof’s unhappy state. "Christof, I am sure that we would all like to hear what has happened to you and your friends this evening."

Taking a deep breath, Christof began to talk uncertainly into the rapt silence. He told about his own attack, how the Basilisk had come from behind and all he had seen was a pair of large, hypnotic eyes through Nearly Headless Nick. How Ron had snuck into the hospital wing after the Mandrake Draught had been administered, and how Ron had told them that Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets; how Ron had led them to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom as a place to talk things over, and how they had deduced that the monster inside the Chamber of Secrets was, indeed, a Basilisk. Astonished cries met him when he told of Aracidia’s part. Dumbledore frowned as he related his conversations with Riddle—and frowned even more when he described the way that the Basilisk had turned from him in mid-strike. Then he faltered—so far he had managed to avoid relating the story Riddle had told him, of the diary and the one who was caught under its malicious spell. What if Ginny was expelled? Pleadingly, he looked at Dumbledore, who smiled faintly as the firelight glinted on his half-moon spectacles.

"What interests me most," he said gently, "Is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny, when my sources tell me he is currently hiding in the forests of Albania."

Mr. Weasley stepped forward quickly from where he had been standing behind his wife. "What?" he asked in startled concern. "You-Know-Who? Enchant Ginny? But how…she hasn’t been…has she?"

Christof held up the diary. "It was this diary, sir," he said rapidly. Suddenly, Ginny looked up from where she had been sobbing brokenly on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder.

"I’ve been wri-writing in it the wh-whole year," she hiccuped. "I di-didn’t know it was wr-wrong. I didn’t kn-know who it w-was. R-Riddle was so n-nice and un-un-understanding."

"Riddle wrote in the diary when he was younger," Christof explained. "I don’t know how Ginny found it, but…"

"Brilliant," said Dumbledore softly. "Brilliant. Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen."

"Brill—student—what on earth do you mean?" Mr. Weasley said, thoroughly nonplussed.

"Few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle," said Dumbledore mildly. "I taught him myself when he was at Hogwarts. But after he left the school he disappeared…he traveled far and wide, into places so dark that even the most pure mind can be corrupted and even the most unblemished record marred by horrible deeds. He sank so deeply into the Dark Arts that when he emerged, many years later, he was nearly unrecognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome boy who was Head Boy at Hogwarts."

"But Ginny," said Mrs. Weasley dazedly. "What’s Ginny got to do with him?"

"H-his diary!" Ginny said again. "I-I’ve been writing in it and—and h-he’s been wr-writing back and and—,"

"Ginny!" said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. "We’ve taught you better than that! What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain. Why didn’t you show the diary to me, or your mother?"

Ginny began to sob even harder. "I d-didn’t know," she wailed. "I f-found it in one of the b-books Mum got for me and—and I thought th-that someone had just left it there and—and I th-thought I could use it as m-my d-diary—,"

"Miss Weasley needs to go up to the hospital wing immediately," said Dumbledore firmly. "This has been a terrible ordeal for all of us. She will not be punished. Older and wiser wizards have been hoodwinked by the Dark Lord. Bedrest and a mug of hot chocolate," he said as he strode over to the door and opened it, "Is just what she needs. And remember," he added gently, "No lasting harm has been done, Ginny."

Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out of the office, Mr. Weasley following closely behind. As he closed the door again, Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at McGonagall. "All of this seems to merit a good feast," he said thoughtfully. "Might I ask you to go and alert the kitchens? Oh, and while you are at it, would you send Severus down with his strongest Truth Potion?"

"Of course," said McGonagall, and left the room quickly.

As soon as she had gone, Dumbledore turned his penatrating gaze on Hermione, Ron, and Christof. "I must commend you on your courage and your cleverness this evening," he said seriously. "All of you will receive Special Awards for Services to the School and two hundred points apiece to your respective houses. Now, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, you may go and prepare yourselves for tonight’s festivities. Mr. Malfoy, if you could remain for a moment, I have a few things to discuss with you."

"Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore gently, "I have reason to believe that a most unfortunate thing has happened."

"I know," Christof cut him off. "Tom Riddle—Voldemort—told me."

Dumbledore sighed again. "It is most certainly not the way I would have you find out. But nothing can change the past, at least nothing in my power or yours."

"He said that Dad’d been hit with a curse," said Christof dully. "And something about it being meant for Harry Potter."

"Yes—this too I know," said Dumbledore gently. "Your father gave his own life for that of another, the greatest sacrifice anyone can make. He will long be remembered."

Christof stared at the desktop, blinking rapidly. "What about Mum?" he whispered finally.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment before replying. "Your mother is a remarkable woman, Christof," he said softly. "When your father was killed, she was taken away and subjected several times to the Cruciatus curse. Still, she did not reveal her mission, or any information concerning the plans of the Aurors."

"What happened to her?" Christof pressed, when Dumbledore did not continue.

"There are not many who can survive several subjections to an Unforgivable Curse," said Dumbledore heavily. "You mother—was not one of them."

"You mean—she’s dead?" Christof croaked.

"I do," said Dumbledore. "The personal torture this news has inflicted on me, is great. I can only imagine how much greater still yours must be."

Christof did not reply, but only stared at the wood-grain on the desktop.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Dumbledore wearily. The door opened and Lucius Malfoy, the very picture of rage, entered.

"So! You’ve come back, have you?" he spat. "The governors saw fit to suspend you, but you came back anyway."

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Well, you see, Lucius, the eleven other governors contacted me today. It was somewhat like being caught in a hailstorm of owls, in truth. They had heard that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and wanted me back here straight away—they seemed to think I was the best man for the job. Very strange tales they had, too. It seems that they were under the impression you had threatened to curse their families if they did not suspend me."

Mr. Malfoy stared in unchecked rage at Dumbledore. "So," he said sneeringly, "Have the attacks stopped yet? Have you caught the Heir of Slytherin?"

"We have," said Dumbledore mildly.

"Well?" said Mr. Malfoy sharply. "Who was it?"

"The same person as last time, Lucius," Dumbledore replied gravely. "Although this time, Voldemort was acting through someone else—by means of this diary." He held up the small, ink-spattered black book. Mr. Malfoy paled slightly.

"A clever plan," Dumbledore continued. "Because if Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley had not discovered the diary beforehand, and if the two of them with Christof had not ventured into the Chamber of Secrets, Miss Weasley would have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she wasn’t acting of her own free will…and imagine what would have happened then. The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pure-blood families. Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and killing Muggle-borns…very fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who knows what the consequences would have been otherwise…"

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak. "Very fortunate," he said stiffly.

"But wouldn’t you like to know how Ginny Weasley got that book?" Dumbledore continued mildly.

"How should I know how that stupid little girl got hold of it?" Mr. Malfoy spat.

"It’s because you gave it to her!" Ron Weasley, panting heavily, burst through the door. "You gave Ginny that diary! You slipped it into her Transfiguration book—in Flourish and Blott’s, after Harry’d gone missing…"

Mr. Malfoy’s hands clenched and unclenched, the knuckles white.

"Prove it," he hissed.

"Oh, no one will be able to do that," said Dumbledore, smiling curiously. "Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. However, I must advise you not to go about handing out any more of Lord Voldemort’s old schoolthings, Lucius. I am sure that Arthur Weasley, for one, would make sure that they were traced back to you."

Lucius Malfoy stared in pure hatred at all three of them in turn. "Good day," he said stiffly, and made as if to leave.

"Not quite," said Dumbledore, a note of steely determination entering into his voice. "I am sure you could not have missed Mr. Weasley’s mention of his friend…Harry Potter."

Mr. Malfoy glared at Dumbledore, but did not speak. Christof saw his right hand twitch suddenly, as if he longed to reach for his wand but did not dare.

"You would not happen to know anything about the whereabouts of Mr. Potter, would you, Lucius?" Dumbledore asked.

"No—of course not," Mr. Malfoy snarled, and left the office.

Ron stood awkwardly in the doorway. "I’m sorry, Headmaster," he mumbled. "I saw Mr. Malfoy come in—it kind of hit me, about the diary and Flourish and Blott’s and everything."

"You did an admirable thing, tonight," said Dumbledore. "Several admirable things. I owe you many debts."

Ron’s ears turned bright red. "Er…thanks," he muttered.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. "I can see that you wish to fill Miss Granger in on all the latest happenings. I will let you go to her. I trust you both are looking forward to tonight’s festivities; I am sure that Mr. Malfoy, here, is also. He may join you in a moment." Dumbledore paused, and then continued. "There will also, I believe, be another at tonight’s feast who you will be anxious to see."

"Who?" Ron asked, his curiosity piqued.

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, that would be letting out a secret," he said.

Ron exited the room, and Dumbledore turned back to Christof.

"Have you any more questions, or would you like to try to catch up to Mr. Weasley and spend the remainder of the evening with him?"

"No—I mean, yes," said Christof, sudden vivid pictures of his experience hurtling back towards him with surprising force. "The Basilisk—it stopped when I told it to."

"That is not so very surprising," said Dumbledore. "You, after all, have inherited many qualities from Salazar Slytherin himself."

Christof gaped at the Headmaster. "Salazar Slytherin?" he said blankly.

Dumbledore gave a small chuckle. "Very few people know that the blood of Slytherin runs in the veins of the family of Malfoy. But it does, and with it many of Slytherin’s own personal talents. The Basilisk, though not by any means an intelligent creature, saw his master in you—and obeyed, at least in part. True, your strength was not that of the Heir, but it was enough to turn the serpent back for a short period of time."

"Oh," said Christof. "Is that—is that why the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin?"

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses. "That is certainly part. But I cannot help but wonder, did you not also wish to be in Slytherin House?"

Christof reddened slightly. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I thought that maybe I could be like Dad—and if I were to go through school in the same house as Draco—,"

The Headmaster nodded. "Most brilliantly thought of," he said. "However, I cannot help but feel that you have been receiving an undue amount of ill-tempered remarks from your fellow House members lately. If you would like, a transfer would be possible. I do not usually allow students to transfer, but I feel that in this case it would be a good thing."

Christof stared at Dumbledore, gaping. "I—you—really?" he choked out.

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "Really," he said.

"I—could I be in—I mean—could I…" Christof stared beseechingly at the Headmaster.

"Be in Gryffindor? Most certainly. Friends like the ones you have made are precious, and all too few. Treat them kindly, and you may find that you have made not only friends, but a powerful alliance as well."

"Thanks," said Christof, gratitude filling his voice. "I—I mean…"

"You mean what?" asked Dumbledore gently, when the boy did not continue.

"I mean…er…nothing, really. I’ve just grown rather tired of my cousin."

Dumbledore smiled again, his eyes like stars of blue fire behind his half-moon spectacles. "I can see how that could be possible," he said.

Loud, pounding footsteps echoed along the corridor outside Harry’s prison. Before he could do anything, the door was flung open. Lucius Malfoy, flanked by two black-cloaked wizards, stood, furious, in the doorway. "Come with me!" he barked, raised his wand, and muttered an incantation. Before Harry could protest, he was walking along the stone corridor through some force not his own. Behind him, his captor was murmuring angrily to one of his companions. Harry caught only a few words of their whispered conversation.

"…actually asked if I…here…can’t believe he came back…others owled…curse…families…"

"No!"

"…found diary…curse him…little brat…"

"…the plan?"

"…failed…here soon…"

The conversation stopped as they reached the foot of a staircase leading, Harry saw, to the main house. Automatically, he stepped up it, disconcerted at the way his legs moved without his willing them to.

In a matter of moments, they had reached the staircase leading up to the room which Harry had previously occupied. They ascended this staircase, too, but went past the old room to the end of the hallway. Harry looked around in bewilderment; there were no longer any doors leading off this part, and the corridor ended in a blank wall. He wondered why it continued so far past any doors—unless—

His speculations were cut off as Lucius Malfoy drew his wand and tapped thrice on the blank wall. It began to slowly dissolve until it looked as though it had never been there; the purple-carpeted corridor continued for some time until it dropped off into another staircase. Mr. Malfoy led the others through it and, sealing the wall back up behind them, hurried Harry along the hall and down the staircase.

The house here looked as if it were older than any other part Harry had been in—though that wasn’t saying much, as he’d been in very little of the house for having stayed so long. The walls were made of very old, dark wood with innumerable spidery lines of grain traced throughout. The floor, too, was hardwood. The dark wood all around him made Harry feel as if it were midnight, not midafternoon—as he’d seen it to be through one of the large windows in the main part of the house.

Pictures lined the wood walls, and Harry studied them carefully. All of them were old, peeling portraits of arrogant-looking people Harry guessed to be previous Malfoys. Only a few—a young girl with white-blonde hair and innocent blue eyes, an elderly man with laugh lines etched into his face, or a brightly smiling middle-aged woman—looked like people Harry wouldn’t mind meeting; the rest bore striking resemblance to the Malfoy who hurried him along the corridor now.

One, though,was different. Harry knew instinctively that he was not a Malfoy, though he really couldn’t say how he knew; he just knew with perfect clarity that the young boy in the portrait had never borne the family name. He looked to be just a little bit older than Harry, fifteen, or maybe sixteen, with very black hair and sharp, ice-blue eyes. He stood leaning idly against the back of a chair, and Harry realized that this wasn’t a portrait, but a blown-up photograph. The person in the picture stared arrogantly at Harry, and though he wasn’t moving at the moment Harry got the feeling that, like all magical pictures, he could take a stroll around the room, if he cared to.

But I don’t care to, the picture said silently, haughtily.

Harry stopped, unaware that his legs had ceased moving along the corridor under Lucius Malfoy’s spell.

Who are you? Harry thought, very much nonplussed. And how do you—you know, tell what I’m thinking?

The picture gave a silent laugh. I don’t know if I want to tell you that, it said self-importantly. Yet. But you’ve seen me before, Harry Potter, and you’ll see me again.

How do you know who I am? Harry asked.

Oh, I know who you are, the picture said smugly.

Something in the back of his mind began to bother him, some recognition of the boy in the picture. He was oddly familiar, yet Harry was certain he’d never seen him in his life before—

You’ve seen me before, the picture stated, smirking. Oh, you’ve seen me before.

Yes, I suppose you saw me—this me—there as well, Harry Potter, said the picture reflectively. But we’ve met, face-to-face, twice in your past.

Harry shivered involuntarily. We haven’t, though, he said with a hint of desperation.

We have, the picture assured him smugly.

"Ah," said a voice behind Harry, startling him out of his silent conversation, "I see the two of you have met."

Lucius Malfoy stood behind Harry, wearing a smirk very much like that of the picture. The two others stood some ways down the corridor, wearing extremely puzzled looks.

Malfoy nodded to the boy in the picture, and then flicked his wand towards Harry. Harry felt his legs begin to move along the hallway again.

"Who was that picture?" Harry asked, his curiosity outweighing his dislike for his captor.

"A mutual friend," Malfoy said sneeringly, and said no more.

Suddenly Harry remembered the globe-scene in which he had seen the black-haired boy in the picture.

"He’s Tom Riddle, isn’t he," he said quietly. Malfoy spun around in surprise.

"Why do you say that?" he asked after regaining his sneering composure.

"I saw him in the globe," said Harry simply. Lucius Malfoy muttered something angrily under his breath.

A moment later they reached what appeared to be their destination. It was a door made of the same wood as the rest of the hallway, with a rusted silver knob. Harry’s legs stopped moving abruptly, as Malfoy opened the door.

The room behind the door was very nearly the smallest one Harry had ever seen; roughly the size of a very small bedroom closet. It was completely bare except for large spiderwebs that looked much the same as those in the dungeon Harry had occupied for the second part of his stay at the Malfoys’. Lucius Malfoy half-shoved, half-prodded him into the room and closed the door abruptly, leaving him alone with the dark and the spiders.

Harry sat very still, waiting for something to happen—he didn’t know what, but he felt instinctively that something was going to happen, very soon.

A few minutes later, something did happen. The door to the tiny cupboard-room burst open, flooding it with light and sending the spiders scuttling to their dark corners. Harry, blinking, saw two figures standing in the doorway.

The first was Lucius Malfoy, looking at Harry in what was meant to be surprise, but what looked more like pure hatred. The other was Albus Dumbledore, his penetrating blue eyes ablaze with anger, holding a wand high in his long fingers.

"I had no idea, Headmaster," Malfoy was saying, trying to supress the anger in his voice. "None at all—I have absolutely no idea as to how the boy got here—really, sir, this is outrageous—I am an upstanding citizen—the Minister of Magic will hear about this—I never authorized you to enter my house—,"

"I will be leaving, Lucius," said Dumbledore, his voice surprisingly serene. "And I will be taking Harry with me."

"Fine," Malfoy spat. "Take him. I’d appreciate if you found the person who was hiding schoolchildren in my home, too."

"I think that that shall not be a problem, Lucius," said Dumbledore calmly, and then turned to Harry. "I am sure that there are many people anxiously awaiting your arrival, so we will not delay."

The Hogwarts Express chugged away from the castle, gaining speed quickly. A moment later the scarlet steam engine was hurtling along the countryside, headed to London and the Muggle world.

Harry sat with Hermione, Ron, and Christof Malfoy—who he liked much better than his cousin—in an otherwise empty compartment. The four of them had spent the last week of the schoolyear taking exams and catching up on the others’ adventures and misadventures, Harry finding his friends’ tale vastly more interesting than his own.

"I can tell Dad about that picture, though," said Ron excitedly after Harry had finished. "If it’s Tom Riddle, and he said that he uses it to give information to the Malfoys—," he grinned in anticipation.

"Yeah," said Harry, grinning back. He still hadn’t quite got over the shock of Dumbledore’s sudden arrival, or the quick trainride back to Hogwarts and his friends. It had been awkward at first—they’d all treated him as some kind of high-risk convalescent—but after the awkwardness had worn off, it’d seemed as if the past year hadn’t happened at all, as if it was really just last week that he’d stayed at the Weasley’s house.

"But what about the jars?" Ron asked for the fourth time. "And the voice? You know, the voice that made you crash into the door—,"

"I don’t know," Harry answered yet again. "I still think someone was watching me all the time, though," he said, and shivered involuntarily.

"But seriously, why would Malfoy’ve put jars in—,"

"I don’t know, Ron!" Harry nearly shouted. "But—I guess it was just for fun."

"I wouldn’t put it past him," Christof muttered darkly.

"It does seem like the kind of thing he’d do," Hermione agreed.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Anyways, let’s drop it....Ron... d’ya think your mum would let me spend a while at your house again?"

Ron thought a moment. "No, don’t see why not."

Harry turned his gaze to the window. "Cool." There was silence in the compartment until Hermione looked intently at him for a moment. "Harry?"

Harry turned away from the window. "Yeah?"

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, then said frankly, "It good to have you back."

Harry looked around the compartment at the other two’s deliberate nods. He smiled warmly.

"Thanks."